Wildfire
by your team's katarina
Summary: Viciously scarred and orphaned by a mysterious fire in his youth, Harry Potter sets off to Hogwarts when he hits the golden age of eleven. Greeted with disgust, rivalries and chaos, he strides onward. At the same time, he encounters new friends and allies, all whilst slowly uncovering drowned magical truths. Well, at least his life couldn't get any worse, right? (AU)
1. Scorched Clovers

_**Wildfire**_

 **Chapter 1:** Scorched Clovers

* * *

Since the first dawn, fire had always been a symbol for civilization, knowledge and stability.

Everyone always praised fire's beauty, with no wonder, of course. It was warm, soothing and unlike anything else in this world.

However, it was also incredibly dangerous.

Fire ripped apart families, forests, buildings; anything that stood in its path.

Harry hated fire.

He hated being near its flaming, unnatural warmth. He hated its ugly shades of reds and the shape it created as it consumed its surroundings. He hated the stench it released when it burned.

Especially when it burned flesh.

Touching his calloused, molten cheek with hesitant fingers, the scarred child let out a deep, strained sigh. It had been over four years since he received his burns, but every time he saw himself in the mirror, they felt as raw as they did when his body was unbandaged for the first time.

He hated them so much. Harry Potter never thought he would experience such harsh feelings of loathing and rage at such the ripe age of ten, but here he was.

The young boy didn't know how long he spent standing in front of the long, smudged mirror. He would always forget where he was when he stood there, but turning around to the rest of the room brought him back to the mundane reality of the orphanage. The room was fairly small with minimal furniture. There were two single beds that hugged the walls, perpendicular to the large window in the back. His room was on the second floor of the orphanage, so sometimes, when the window wasn't clouded by rain and fog, Harry got a pretty decent view of the outside world. Across the window, the pale, wooden door stood, contrasting fairly well against the chestnut-colored furniture and murky blue walls. Beside it, a large wardrobe filled with plain clothing stood proudly, reaching higher than anything else in the room. Scowling and turning his head away from his ugly reflection, he shoved his hands into his pockets, before childishly waddling over to his messy bed. He collapsed onto the rough mattress and blankets face first, his glasses falling off his face in the process.

Harry found himself wondering whether or not he should have glasses in the first place. His vision wasn't _that_ bad and one eye was permanently shut due to his scar, anyways. Maybe he should get a monocle, or something.

No way. Not in the far off year of 1991, instead of receiving stares, he would get laughs and giggles thrown his way. It was essentially social suicide.

The boy groaned loudly and turned around onto his back. His hand roamed his bed, trying to recover the lost round spectacles until he figured that they probably landed on his pillow. Staring up at the white, plain ceiling, his thoughts wandered elsewhere. What was he doing here? Was he going to rot away? Would anyone ever adopt him?

Probably not. He felt like a trapped dog in one of those pet shelters. Maybe even like a mutt, like the ones who lost an eye in a pit fight and were simply imprisoned for years to come. While everyone adopted those cute, soft puppies with large eyes and playful attitudes, the other uglier mutts would simply sit in the dark, day after day. He supposed that some ugly dogs do get adopted, though. Perhaps his calling was right around the corner and all he had to do was leave this room.

How long had he been cooped up in here, anyways? Harry turned his head towards his worn down end table, glancing at the ancient, nearly broken clock. 14:35. He didn't want to leave the small, minimalistic room, but his stomach gurgling suggested otherwise. With a deep, exhausted sigh, Harry stood up and glanced back at his ruffled bed, before finally taking note of his discarded glasses. He reached down to pick them up, carelessly putting them back on his face to their former position. Taking one last resentful look in the mirror, the short boy made his way towards the door. He placed his unfeeling hand onto the cold, smooth handle and turned it, pulling the door open.

The halls of the orphanage weren't much more spectacular than its bedrooms. The long walls were painted a murky greyish-green, revealing its white drywall underneath through the cracks of the peeled paint. Was this even sanitary? Harry had no idea how this place passed its annual inspections. The floors, which were made out of wood, were covered by a dusty, long carpet, decorated by children's muddy footsteps. He ignored the depressing setting and began to make his way towards the common room and by extension, the kitchen.

As he took long strides, he noticed a few of the other kids running by him, either laughing excitedly or pointedly ignoring him. His burnt hand reached up to shield his face self-consciously, tugging on the chunk of hair that was almost covering his shut eye. His hair was an annoyance to maintain sometimes, honestly. It was a wild, uneven mane that curled up at the ends and every time he tried to cover his face protectively, it simply propped itself up again. After a few minutes of silent and sullen walking, Harry finally reached the common room of the orphanage.

Cloverfield was one of the smallest orphanages in London, its population consistently staying in the low twenties. Kids always came by and went, with their ages ranging from infancy all the way to near adulthood. They always seemed to get adopted by their late teens, though. He only knew one kid that never got adopted and stayed until he was eighteen, but it wasn't a surprise. The guy was fairly violent and rude to just about everyone he met, including Harry. The green-eyed youth rolled his eyes at the memory of the tall, lanky teen pointedly mocking him about his scars. At the time, Harry was straight out of the hospital, barely recovered. To say that it was a pretty rough time was an understatement. He was fairly nervous and flustered during the day, pointedly cowering away from all the pitiful gazes thrown in his direction. At night, he would cry himself to sleep, only to be waken up in cold sweat from fiery nightmares. He dimly remembered his time with the Dursleys, his mother's relatives. After getting released from the hospital and having his medical bills mysteriously paid off, he was sent to stay with them.

Harry never really knew them. When he would curiously ask his young mother about her own family, while she was still alive, she would simply change the topic or stay fairly vague about it. The only point of information the young child managed to pry out of her after some hugs and puppy-dog eyes was that she had an older sister named Petunia whom she didn't speak with anymore.

Even though it had been four years since her death, Harry barely remembered his mother. He hated the thought of forgetting her memory, but it made sense, he guessed. He was only six when she protected him from the fire and went out in flames, so as he would grow older he would only forget her more. The realization brought a pain in his heart and he felt his open eye prick with tears, only for it to quickly pass as he furiously rubbed at it, drying any tears threatening to roll down his cheek.

The ten year old stopped walking as soon as the grave awakening hit him: he didn't remember how her voice sounded like. The boy stared down at the floor until his vision blurred and he blinked, realizing that some of the younger orphans around him were glancing at him curiously. He looked away, glancing down at his worn out trainers self-consciously. He hated this type of attention; the thought of people staring at him and whispering about his scars crawled up his spine. He rubbed his right arm awkwardly, suddenly thankful that he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt that day. It wasn't particularly cold, in fact, this July had been hotter than most. The weather didn't affect his day-to-day fashion, though.

Now that he thought about it, Harry hadn't worn a short-sleeve shirt in a long time, at least in public. Sure, he wore a tank top to bed sometimes, but his wardrobe mainly consisted of plain long-sleeved shirts and oversized pants. Whenever he would get offered and gifted new clothing by his caretakers, he would never receive shorts or t-shirts. He was glad, honestly, as it saved him from the children's teasing and stares, but he had a strange feeling that even if he didn't ask for that type of fashion, he would receive it anyways.

As he walked into the kitchen, he was met with a strong aroma of fresh, baking bread and the searing stench of the stew's meat. He flinched ever so slightly by his overwhelmed senses, but he managed to force a smile when he saw the kindly chef and two of the older orphans working together. The kitchen was fairly small and well worn out from excessive use, but it had a welcoming feel nonetheless. Something about the pale, teal colors and the homely nature of the hearth washed a relaxing and comforting feeling over Harry, though on the other hand it wasn't hard to admit that the proximity to the strong heat made him wary.

Leaning by the doorframe, he curiously watched the cooks work. The head chef of the orphanage, Rosa, was sweet and motherly towards all of its inhabitants. She was an older woman nearing her fifties, Harry guessed, with a thick frame and a face wrinkled by smile lines. The chef curiously reminded the raven-haired boy of his own late mother, so he's not surprised that he quickly got attached to her. She seemed to like him well enough, too, as he noticed by her subtle hints when she would offer him extra loaves of bread or a freshly-baked pastry. His thoughts were interrupted by the woman's hearty laugh when she turned around and noticed the shy boy standing near the door.

"Harry! How are you, dear?" Rosa gave him a fond smile before glancing back at the pot in front of her, stirring it mundanely.

The jade-eyed youth's contrasting face cracked into a small smile, his calloused cheek tugging tightly. "I'm good, Miss Rosa. How are you?" His right hand reached up to tug on his tuft of soft, ebony hair protectively. He pointedly ignored the two older kids' wary and disgusted glares thrown in his direction, instead keeping his good eye directed at the homely cook's form as she hummed to herself.

"I'm good as always, my dear. Of course, I feel better now though now that you have graced us with your presence. Did you want a snack, dear? Lunch will be ready in half an hour. You and the other kids will get a kick out of this fresh stew! Marie and Ethan have helped out today and they did a great job with prepping!" She announced proudly, clasping her hand on Marie's shoulder, who jumped at the sudden form of affection. Harry felt his smile grow as he shrunk shyly at the woman's praise. If anyone else said those words, he would instantly jump to the conclusion that it was a pointed form of sarcasm or mockery, but he knew she was only being honest. Her warm nature was almost intoxicating and he bit his lip excitedly as he felt butterflies flutter in his stomach.

"Oh, if lunch will be ready soon, then I'll wait it out. I just wanted to see if you had any leftovers from breakfast, I haven't eaten all day." He said truthfully, rubbing his right arm in his notable way. He never realized that he did that until his roommate pointed it out to him a few months ago, curiously asking him why he constantly reached for his arm. It was fairly strange, though he supposed habits didn't have to make sense.

Rosa turned back to look at him, frowning suddenly, "Did you just leave your room for the first time today? I sent Charlie with today's breakfast to your room, did you not receive it?" She inquired worriedly, not noticing the other two kids' barely concealed snickers. Harry flinched, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he glanced down at his trainers in an attempt to avoid her disapproving gaze. "Uh, no? Nobody talked to me today, I haven't even seen Charlie since last night."

The chef's assistants chortled loudly before being silenced by the larger woman's stern gaze, who turned back to look at Harry pitifully. He frowned at the sight, his bushy eyebrows furrowing. If there was one thing he hated more than his scars, it was the pity that they gathered. The concept of pity was relatively new to the ten year old. Actually, that wasn't right. He had been met with pity ever since he first awoke in the hospital, in the burn victims' unit. Harry had no idea that such a word existed, until he finally ended up in Cloverfield Orphanage and was given a long, boring speech by its owner and staff.

Clicking her tongue, Rosa sighed tiredly. "I'm going to have a talk with that young man. I'm sorry, Harry. We're almost finished with lunch, so if you're still floating near the dining room, you'll be able to grab seconds." She offered sympathetically, before putting down her mixing spoon and grabbing a rag. He knew the conversation was over, so he simply shrugged and tried to offer a smile to her.

"That's alright. Thank you, Miss Rosa. I'll, uh, see you around." Harry offered a wave, shuffling out of the kitchen. Back in the halls connecting to the common room, he sighed. As he walked out, he could've sworn he heard those two teens laughing mischievously and frantically gossiping, before the chef chastised them loudly. Honestly, he couldn't wait until he was out of here. Sure, it was a stable home and he had some people he liked, like Rosa, but he was quite frankly getting tired of all the other kids. 'Get used to it, Harry,' he thought to himself sullenly, 'that's how it's gonna be from here on out.'

Suddenly, he heard a low hissing and a small voice soothingly whispered in his ear, " _It'sssss not that bad._." It was a quiet, feminine voice, but it didn't seem to be quite _there_. It sounded like it came from far away, almost as if it was underwater.

Or maybe it was in his mind.

Harry turned around suspiciously, looking around to locate the source of the voice. Seeing that he was the only person standing in the hall, he wondered if he imagined it. Like an imaginary friend, or something. Brilliant, he had no friends, so now he had to make them up? How pathetic. Harry sighed loudly, his hand reaching to feel the rough cheek again, before shrugging his shoulders. Soon after, the boy started walking again, shuffling his feet on the blue-grey carpet.

" _Down here! Hey!_ " The same voice filled his ears, now in a louder, more desperate tone. It wasn't as loud as another person's voice would be in a conversation, but it was much louder than the soft hissing he heard moments before. The scarred boy stopped walking again, looking back behind him to see if he could catch anybody in the act. Nothing. The plain halls appeared the same as they did the last time Harry turned around. His gaze narrowed as he turned around again, squinting at the far end of the hall. Nothing again.

"Very funny, guys." Harry finally said aloud, suddenly on guard. This wouldn't be the first time the others would try to pull a prank on him. He recalled one time when he found a burnt candle near his face when he awoke one December morning. The experience was innocent enough, but it did give him quite a scare. When he asked about it, he was only met with mischievous giggles and no one fessed up.

The boy looked down at his feet and for a while, the only sound he heard was the rapid beating of his heart. This time he would be ready for any incoming pranks or unwanted attention. Taking a deep breath, he worriedly looked back behind him, staring at the doorframe of the kitchen for what seemed like minutes.

" _I'm pretty funny, yeah. Ah, whatever, boy! Look down! At the wall! I'm right here! Hellooooo?"_ The voice seemed to shout, as if it were frantically trying to get his attention, but it was still quiet. How weird. Warily, the dark-haired boy looked down near the wall beside him. Right at the crevice of the floor and wall, there was a small hole. Instead of a small mouse or another cretin, a small snake peeked out, glancing up at Harry with almost a morbid curiosity. Surprised, he took a step back, glancing back and forth at both ends of the halls to make sure nobody was around to witness the event.

The snake, from what he could tell, wasn't venomous. It looked like a simple house snake, like one of those species that people kept as pets. Did someone lose it? He couldn't recall that any of the orphans at Cloverfield had a pet snake. Now that he thought about it, he remembered that they weren't even allowed to keep pets, as they were a hazard, or whatever the owner said. The snake slithered out of the jagged hole, revealing the rest of its long, reptilian body. It was larger than he expected, but its size didn't compare to wild, feral snakes. It had a sleek, scaly brown coat patterned with blobs of varying shades of brown that reminded Harry of those chocolate-swirled ice cream cones, except this was a potentially dangerous and frightening animal while the other was a delicious frozen dessert. After staring at the reptile for a few seconds, he recognized it to be a ball python, recalling his reading sessions at the small library that the orphanage had to offer.

Harry didn't particularly enjoy reading, but he didn't really have anything else to do with his free time. Sometimes it was interesting, he supposed. Cloverfield's library, despite the limited variety, did have some books on classical civilizations and animal encyclopedias. Sometimes he would spend his days cooped up in the library, from dawn to dusk, reading about Ancient Roman emperors and snake diets. Those days were rare though, because Harry genuinely believed he spent more time searching for a decent book than actually reading one.

Awkward silence filled the dreary hall as the boy and the snake stared at each other expectantly. Harry began to wonder whether or not he imagined the voice, but an unlikely thought hit him: what if it was the snake that talked to him? Magic flowed through his veins, after all. Who's to say he can't talk to snakes? Memories filled his thoughts as he recalled listening intently to his parents' exciting stories of their school adventures, when they were still alive. His lips quirked up into a small, nostalgic smile as the memories vibrantly grew stronger and he felt himself slowly slipping away from the present.

His vision blurred and he blinked quickly, his daydreams crashing down around him as he realized that he was just standing in the hallway, blanking out. Harry heard footsteps behind him and he whirled around, only to see one of the younger kids jump in surprise. The burnt boy eyed him cautiously, only to be met with a yelp and the kid skittered off without a single word, clutching his book tightly. Harry felt a frown grow on his face and a guilty pang struck his heart, but he knew that he couldn't do anything about it. Almost as if it was sensing a change in mood, the mysterious voice spoke again after its indefinite silence.

" _Sssso, you can hear me! I've been talking to all these kidssssss here and nobody even showed a ssssign of responding!"_ Quickly picking up on the strange accent and stressing of the voice's s's, Harry whirled back around, glaring at the snake.

"So, I'm not imagining this, then? A snake's talking to me?"

He kneeled down, closing the distance between him and the snake. The only way it could escape was back into its hole, now that he realized, but it didn't seem to be afraid of him nor his sudden, harsh movements. The ball python simply stared up at him with what he imagined to be excitement and curiosity, its golden eyes flickering.

" _Yup! Sssso, what'sssss your name, kid?"_ He, no, she spoke; Harry realized that it was definitely a female, high-pitched voice speaking. Carelessly, the snake slithered out and curled around his feet. Almost losing his balance, Harry desperately tried to tilt towards the wall with his hands forward. As soon as his fingertips made contact with the sleek wallpaper, he felt stable. The raven-haired boy found himself nervously wishing that nobody would walk through the hallway and see this exchange, because he wouldn't be able to make up a story.

"Harry. What's yours?" He asked, somewhat curiously, before finally deciding that he should sit down. Turning over, careful not to step on the long snake, he leaned his back against the wall and sat, clutching his knees closely to him.

" _Oh, I don't have a name. Want to give me one? I want to ssssee what you can come up with."_ The snake hissed brightly and he felt himself flinch at her happy disposition. Weren't snakes supposed to be fearsome predators who ate mice and slept all day?

"Uh, are you sure?" Harry inquired hesitantly, biting his lip. Why was he suddenly so stressed? It was just a name. Sensing his nervousness, the snake slithered onto his leg. He supposed she meant for it to be affectionate, but it was more threatening than anything.

" _Sure, why not?"_

Just when he was going to answer, he heard a dull, bored voice interrupt his train of thought. "Potter, what on god's green earth are you doing?"

Harry's head snapped up, turning to identify the person who spoke. His nerves were comforted when he realized it was one of the teenager orphans, Daniel Marvell, who was staring at him with a half-lidded gaze and a hand on his hip. "I'm sitting." The younger boy shrugged, covering the snake on his knee protectively with his burnt hand.

"In the hallway?"

"Yes."

"Hissing to that snake on your knee? Why do you have a snake anyways? We're not allowed to keep pets. Maybe I should slip in a word to the director."

"While you're at it, ask him why there are rats and snakes in the walls of the orphanage. Maybe we could get a fund and put it towards replacing our pillows, especially Ethan Zappala's. I wonder if he ever found out who was it that washed his pillowcase in a toilet bowl in the boys' bathrooms, huh, Marvell?" Harry hummed as he stroked his chin in thought, glancing up at the blonde boy innocently. His words seem to have done the trick, as the lanky, dull boy simply flushed a bright red and neared threateningly, but failed to do so. Instead, he only looked as pathetic as he felt. The bespectacled boy bit his cheek to prevent a victorious smirk from growing on his face. It always felt nice to be able to stand up to kids who were five years older, as all he had to do was pay extra attention to conversations and pranks and he had all the information he needed.

"You wouldn't. Who would believe you, anyways?"

"Last time I checked, I'm known as the ugly burnt kid here, not the resident liar. Can't say the same for you, though. You seem to fit both labels." He sighed dramatically, shrugging. If possible, Marvell's angry face flushed even brighter. Harry noted that he vaguely resembled one of those American rednecks he'd see on television sometimes and he snorted, unable to hide his amusement any longer.

"You better sleep with one eye open, Potter. But I suppose then you'd only be fully awake then, huh?"

"All the better to watch you try to put a candle in my pillow, hm? If I hear one word out of you about the snake, then you better have an apology letter ready for Zappala. Maybe one for Marie, too, I'm sure she'd love to hear about your adventures with Catherine in her room, as your girlfriend." He smiled innocently, batting his eyelashes.

"How did you-, actually, you know what? Whatever. I'm not going to spend my time fucking arguing with an ugly, burnt ten year old. Watch your back, Potter. This isn't the end."

"I'm sure it isn't," Harry smiled, before waving him goodbye. "Bye, Marvell." He watched the teenager's retreating form as he stormed back into the common room. Unable to keep his face serious anymore, he laughed. He withdrew his hand from the snake, who was hissing in amusement too, as if she were giggling along with him.

" _Wow,"_ the snake let out a low noise, almost like a whistle, " _I knew you were different from the others, but I didn't know you just started arguments with kids five years your senior."_ She giggled, before slowly slithering back down his leg and back into the hole in the wall.

"Thanks, it's one of my only talents, along with being sad all day," Harry sighed, but he was grinning ear to ear nonetheless. He glanced back down at the curiously-patterned ball python, who met his gaze with a happy clicking of her jaw, as if she was trying to grin widely.

" _Well, I'm getting hungry, ssso I'll sssssee you around, Harry. Conssssider yoursssself lucky, I'm giving you extra time to think of a name."_ With that, the snake retreated into the hall and silence filled the air. Standing up and stretching widely, the young Harry Potter retreated back into his room, with a happier bounce to his normally plain step.

* * *

"Potter! Wake up, you've got mail!" A male voice barked at him, stirring the resting boy from his dreamless sleep. When he didn't react immediately, his roommate simply huffed, before slapping an envelope on his end table and storming out. The sudden gesture didn't gather the retaliation it intended, as Harry simply shifted in his bed, tugging his blankets over his chin. He flinched when he felt the morning sun rays strike his face, groaning loudly. He supposed he should get up soon; what time was it, anyways? Glaring at his clock, Harry sighed when he realized he couldn't read the time without his glasses.

He sat up in his bed, letting the sheets fall off his chest. Avoiding glancing at his exposed arm and the scars that decorated it, the boy grabbed a hold of his glasses, slipping them on. After doing so, he grasped the letter that lay on the oaken end table and examined it closely.

It was smooth and ancient looking, as if it didn't belong to this century. The paper was a dim yellow which resembled old, Victorian parchment. It wasn't anything special, except for its seal, which was a deep mahogany. The hardened wax was stamped with a sigil; a strange banner which was separated into four sections. When Harry couldn't figure out the shapes and engravings on the emblem, he simply shrugged. Flipping the envelope to the front, he raised his eyebrow at the font.

" _Mr. H. Potter,_

 _Cloverfield Orphanage,_

 _26 Oat Lane,_

 _London, England"_

Harry blinked in confusion, before a sudden realization hit him. This couldn't be his Hogwarts letter, could it? He vaguely remembered his mother intensively describing her first letter; how it came as a shock to her family that witches and wizards existed and that she was one, of all people.

Now, it was _his_ turn, wasn't it?

He gingerly unfolded the letter, careful not to tear up the contents inside. After making a messy yet simple enough tear, he excitedly opened the old-school envelope and glanced over the papers inside.

The contents were roughly what he imagined, while at the same time they were exactly as his mum described it. Inside, he found a long letter describing his enrollment and a list of items required for his first year at the wizarding school. A fearful pang struck his chest as he found himself wondering how he would pay for all of this. Was there some sort of wizarding loan he could get? If so, where would he go? Was there a bank just for wizards? Did his parents have anything valuable stored there and if so, what? They wouldn't keep all their money in the house, right? It burned down to the ground, there's nothing but ashes left.

Harry took a deep breath to steady his nerves, though he noticed that his hands were shaking. He let go of his grip of the letter, letting it fall onto his blanket. How would he tell the owners of orphanage, anyways? Would he just go up to them and say, ' _oh, hey, I just got an enrollment letter to a private wizarding school who-knows-where and by the way, magic is real'_?

Blimey, why did this have to happen now? Harry put his face in his hands and groaned loudly, conflicted and devastated. Sure, he was excited in the first, what, thirty seconds of the revelation, but now all he felt was a deep pit in his stomach and cold, clammy hands on his face. What day was it, anyways?

The boy glanced over at the calendar that hung on the door of the wardrobe, squinting at the small writing. Yesterday was Tuesday, right? July 30th. That meant that today was…

"Oh," Harry said blankly, glancing down at the letters scattered on his bed. It was his birthday. Fantastic, as if his mood couldn't get any worse... He knew other kids would be ecstatic for their birthdays, but it was, quite frankly, Harry's least favorite day. All it did for him was remind the scarred boy of the Fire and the tragedy that would haunt him until his dying breath.

Absent-mindedly, his fingers traced over the scars that covered his right arm. Maybe he should've worn a long-sleeved pyjama shirt instead of a tank top, he figured, as the soothing gliding of his fingers quickly turned into harsh gripping. His fingers tensed as he dug his nails until the pain echoed through his entire forearm. When he let his clean hand go, the pink, burnt skin was patterned by white crescent-shaped marks.

It was too early for this. He had to get back to the matter at hand, which begged the question: what was he going to do? Suddenly, as if his hopes and fears were answered, he noticed a small paper package that was tucked deep into the letter. He fished it out and glanced at the brown, square-shaped packaging that he uncovered. It wasn't particularly heavy; Harry actually thought that the covering was heavier than the mysterious object itself, but whatever. After tugging at the paper for a few minutes, he finally managed to open it and unsheath the object.

Inside the packaging, the scarred boy found a small, thin silver key. It appeared ancient, but it was kept in pristine condition, with minimal scratching and rust. He gently took a hold of it, gripping the cold steel key as he pondered on its possible uses. Surely it wasn't an accident, it was practically gift-wrapped! Placing it back on the brown packaging to its original position, he carefully wrapped and sealed it. Perhaps there was something else written in one of the letters? Why would they send him an old key without a reason?

Surely enough, after minutes of skimming over all the papers, he found a small note. It was written in fancy, sleek cursive that Harry had a hard time reading through, but after minutes of careful deciphering, he concluded that it was a key to Gringotts, the wizarding bank. While searching, another question of his was answered, as he discovered where he would need to head to next to purchase all the necessities.

Diagon Alley.

Harry frowned as he practiced saying the words in his head. Was it a pun on diagonally? Suddenly, images of diagonal European buildings filled his mind and he began to doubt whether or not he should go. Well, not like he had a choice, did he? What would happen if he just skipped out on going to Hogwarts? Would he be tracked down and dragged there? Or would they just forget about him?

He was fairly tempted to not go. This was all too surreal, and sudden, too. Sure, he knew about the existence of magic since he was born, but after living in such a modern, lonely world for so long, would he even be able to get used to the change? He almost came to the decision to just stay with his old life, where it was safe and normal until a realization hit him.

Magic was the _only_ connection he had left to his late parents.

Sighing loudly, he glanced back at the letters scattered on his bed.

"I guess I really don't have a choice, huh?"

* * *

The whole situation was easier to handle than he expected, much to his relief.

As soon as the young wizard left his room, he was called down to the owner's office, who gave him a long speech about who-knows-what; Harry didn't really listen, he just nodded his head and smiled, before finally being told that he was accepted into a boarding school in Scotland. He snickered as he recalled the owner's shocked, disbelieving expression when he announced it; the eleven year old orphaned burn victim was a child genius? Since when?

Oh, well, what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him, right?

After offering a flimsy story about having to gather his uniform and supplies from a postal office, Harry left the orphanage with a bag in tow and the mysterious key in hand. He'd be back later in the day, unfortunately, but at least there was only a month before he would be gone for a good whole year. All of his previous worries and thoughts were quickly replaced by excitement and anticipation. A new magical school with entirely new people in the middle of nowhere? Yes, please!

It was pretty uncommon for Harry to go out to London, especially by himself. He figured he should be scared; after all, a small, vulnerable orphan sitting alone on the metro was basically asking for trouble. Instead, he was only excited at the prospect of having the freedom to do whatever he wanted with no one to stop him. What would happen if he got into trouble? It'd be pretty funny if he got caught by the police; how would the Cloverfield owner react? Maybe he should go take a trip to downtown while he was at it, it was bound to have some rad places to check out there.

Unfortunately, as soon as he got out of the platform, all of his entertained daydreams died out when he turned his head upwards and glanced at the clock: 15:50. How was it so late already? He didn't even do anything yet!

The next hour was spent by brisk walking and rereading his letters. By some miracle, he managed to find the aforementioned Diagon Alley after some prying around, which was almost like the light at the end of the tunnel for him.

It was like everything he imagined but at the same time, it wasn't. Long, dark Victorian-styled buildings curved and twisted the streets, managing to look both inviting and menacing. The roads, which were covered in cobblestone, were too narrow to allow cars to pass through, but they were wide enough for people to walk and socialize on. The street was particularly busy this afternoon, with an excited buzzing of many robed mages, both young and old, filling the area. Harry assumed that it was all witches and wizards here, which was quickly confirmed as he scanned the crowd and its attire. They all dressed as if they were straight out of some fantasy video game, like one of those that the older boys played in the common room. They all dressed in dark, long robes, with pointy, velvety hats. There wasn't any color variety beyond black, grey or brown, but upon further examination, he noticed that darker shades of greens, purples and blues were also present.

Taking a deep breath, Harry reshifted his coat and hair in an attempt to cover most of his scars. Of course, he couldn't; they'd always be visible for the whole world to see. But he could try, and so he did. Lowering his head, he began to make his way down the street. There were many different stores, all for magical purposes, obviously. Potion shops, pet familiar shops, broom stores, and more, all of them decorating the buildings' exteriors. There were some wooden wagons and carriages parked right outside on the street, holding various condiments and suspiciously-looking meats. Harry thought he heard a merchant advertising fresh dragon liver, but he didn't think too hard about it.

It was strange to see how the wizarding world and the normal world were so similar yet contrasting at the same time. Sure, there were all these weird stores with strangely-dressed people, but it was still a human civilization. There were advertisements, currency and gossiping near cafes. Teenage girls giggled amongst themselves and young boys gawked at a new cool product that would excite their friends. Maybe this wouldn't be such an abrupt change, Harry mused. His hand reached up to brush a tuft of hair onto his shut eye, covering a fair amount of his prominent scars. Thankfully enough, he didn't attract as much attention as he expected while walking. Everyone was there for their own business or interest, but that didn't mean that nobody stared at him. He gathered some morbidly curious and disgusted glances to which the small boy uncomfortably looked down at his feet and the ancient cobblestones around him. 'It'll be over soon,' he tried to reassure himself, though it didn't help much, 'just go to Gringotts and follow the letter'.

Easier said than done. Even after walking for what seemed like half an hour, he only seemed to be going in a circle, because Harry could've sworn he saw that stupid Quidditch uniform store four times. Maybe he should ask someone for help? Before he could ponder on the choices available to him, he walked past a nervous boy of similar height. Was he also in the same year as him? Harry was glad to see that he wasn't the only one struggling with the whole experience. The boy was short and pudgy, with a round face and dark brown hair. Accompanied by him was a tall giant of a man. The man, burly and bearded, was taller than anyone Harry has ever seen. He seemed to be talking rambunctiously, waving his hands widely, seemingly more excited than the poor boy himself. The man's voice faltered as his eyes set on Harry, who glanced back at him, narrowing his gaze cautiously.

'Great, here we go again,' Harry groaned inwardly, as he felt the stare settle on his cheek. Honestly, if he had a pound for every time someone stared at his scars, he would've been rich!

"Hagrid? What's wrong?" The shy boy spoke out, his voice was a high-pitched, mousey sound. Harry tried not to flinch, instead glancing away from the pair, pretending to ignore them. He heard a low, hearty laugh, but it was getting quieter as Harry briskly walked away.

"Heh, s'nothin', Neville. Aye, there's Ollivander's! Come along now, we still need to get yeh a wand..." The man, Hagrid's, voice rang out and his cheery disposition was quickly restored. Harry kept up the speed until he heard their voices get drowned out by the crowd and distance, sighing softly once he finally felt safe to drop the pace. As if he was led by fate, he glanced up curiously in an attempt to adjust to his new surroundings that he blindly barged into. He stood at an intersection and in front of him, a tall, regal building stood high with multiple stories. On the very top, Harry noticed a long, wooden sign with golden writing engraved in it. Taking a step back and cranking his neck up, he squinted as he made an attempt to read the sign.

Gringotts.

Well, _that_ was easy.

Harry exhaled shortly, glancing down at himself to check for any faults. His plain, guarding clothing seemed to look clean and tidy enough, and the only scars exposed were on his hand and face. He fiddled with the silver key, which was still warm from his tight clutching during his walk. With his free, pale hand, he leaned over towards the intimidating door, which was built from wood and was lined with a gold frame. They _really_ liked gold, huh? He pushed the door open and stepped into the mysterious establishment.

The bank itself was much grander than anything he expected. Sure, it was very extravagant from the outside, but it looked just like a fancier wizarding building. This, however, was something else. It could've passed for the Queen's personal bank, if anything. He stood in a long corridor that was illuminated by a warm, golden light. As he looked up, he noticed an enormous chandelier, encrusted by diamonds and of course, gold. It appeared more expensive than Harry's entire life and he wondered what would happen if it just mysteriously fell down and shattered. The floor was immaculate; covered in smooth, peach-colored tiles that didn't have a single speck of dust trapped in its crevices. Around the room, tall wooden desks guarded the area, forming a u-shape. Lines formed in front of them, consisting of impatient warlocks and stressing witches. Operating the services, however, were creatures that were more curious than the entire building.

The tellers appeared to be gremlins of some sort, or something, because they didn't look human at all. They were short and stout, with scrunched, wrinkly faces and long, pointy ears. Their hands, too large for their bodies, had thin, spider-like fingers that covered the scarred boy's body in disturbed goosebumps. They all appeared to be either apathetic or annoyed. Harry hadn't notice one of them move their mouths, but that was potentially because they were listening to their customers chatter their hats off. The mysterious creatures dressed in fancy, modern clothes, resembling the immaculate tellers that worked in downtown London; which was fairly jarring compared to the attire he had been forced witness since arriving at Diagon Alley.

Recalling that the letter had referred to Gringotts as a goblin-run bank, Harry hesitantly glanced around the grandiose hall, wondering what to do now. After discovering what seemed to be the shortest line of customers in the whole bank, he waddled over. He secured his spot behind a frantic-looking witch, who was muttering to herself as she nervously went through her wallet and bag, seemingly searching for something. Harry simply began considering what he should say to the goblin teller as he glanced around the bank, attempting to eavesdrop on some of the other customers' conversations, which proved to be a difficult task as the hall easily echoed loudly stacking papers and numerous conversations happening at once.

Well, at least it won't take _that_ long, right?

* * *

If Harry Potter learned one thing today in his mundane excursion to Diagon Alley, it's that banks were hell on earth.

Finally taking foot outside of Gringotts after a few hours, he glanced up at the sky, squinting as the golden rays of the sunset struck his eyes. The sky, which was previously a pale blue covered by countless clouds, was now an iridescent flurry of bright oranges, pinks and blues. Diagon Alley itself looked much more peaceful, with most of its inhabitants gone home. There were some stray mages here and there, but overall it was more serene and quiet.

The young wizard's face formed into a deep frown, tugging tightly at the corners of his lips as he wondered whether or not he would be able to get all of his shopping done today. After politely inquiring and being given an annoyed speech about wizarding currency, Harry managed to withdraw what seemed to be a decent amount of money; enough to last his shopping spree, he hoped. He glanced down at his cheap watch that was wrapped around his wrist and almost choked in shock: 18:10?! When do these stores close, anyways? He prayed that they would close in a few hours; it was a weekday, for crying out loud!

Harry let out a deep breath and began briskly walking down the plaza. His face was buried in his letters, though occasionally he looked up and tried to search for one of the shops listed. He spent the next forty or so minutes checking off most of the required items on his list, going at a fairly efficient pace. He assumed the store owners and workers wanted to get rid of him, too, as they serviced him within minutes. Thankful that they didn't start awkward conversations or glance at his scars too pointedly, Harry quickly paid the costs given and stuffed his new purchases in his bag. It began to feel heavy after the fifth store, as it was filled almost to the top with textbooks, vials and his new, sleek wand.

Going to Ollivander's to purchase a wand for himself was easily one of the most uncomfortable experiences in his eleven year old life. The old man, with his wide, pale eyes and wild hair, seemed to stare him down, like a hunter would with a trapped deer. Harry tried to rush through the process, but the owner seemed to simply take his time, asking him questions with long pauses and would slowly go to the back to search through what seemed to be countless wands. Impatient to leave, Harry simply smiled and paid him the price, before grabbing his new wand and dashing out of the old, dusty store.

His last stop was the robes' tailor. Harry had tried putting it off, but he knew that it was required, so reluctantly, he slowly made his way to the small store. He hated when people, especially strangers, touched him; a possible fear he had taken along with him as a souvenir from the hospital. Worst case scenario, he would have to strip naked and be measured for size adjustments in his robes, but was _hopefully_ unrealistic. At least, the prospect of stripping naked in front of strangers, exposing his scars that twisted around his back and leg. That would be truly awful.

Harry's legs began to ache and he was suddenly thankful that this shop would be his last destination. Within minutes of walking, he managed to track down the dark, homely-looking tailory. Carefully pushing the door open, he stepped inside, ignoring the soft creaking. Harry looked around: it was fairly standard. There were a few wooden stools and long, shiny mirrors, along with some hangers and large rolls of fabric that decorated the walls and shelves. It was fairly empty, its only other customer being a young boy who was in the process of getting his robes adjusted. Harry hovered near the door awkwardly, adjusting the weight of his full bag as he watched at the middle-aged witch dash around the room, gathering fabrics and handling tools effortlessly. She glanced over at the door, noticing Harry for the first time.

"Oh! Are you here to purchase your set of Hogwarts robes too? I'll be with you in just a second, dear! Just come along here to this stool and take off your bag, please." She waved him over, giving the scarred boy a pleasant, polite smile to which he nodded shyly in response before shuffling over.

The stool she offered to him was right beside the other boy's, whom Harry managed to get a closer look at. The boy was taller than him, he guessed, even if he was standing on a stool. He had a pointed face and sleek, pale blonde hair, which almost appeared white. He had a mix of a scowl and a childish pout planted on his face, though Harry didn't blame him, as the boy was being hovered over by the tailor and had his robes readjusted every few seconds, before being bombarded with questions. The boy peered down at him and his gaze narrowed, but Harry wasn't sure whether or not it was because of his scars or his plain attire. Probably both.

After a few minutes of standing around and watching the tailor do her job, she finally focused her attention on him. He simply nodded and replied shortly to any of her questions, but he didn't think she minded. She was a bit of a chatterbox, he quickly realized, as she was babbling about who-knows-what while directing him to shed his coat and bag, before rushing to grab a bundle of fabrics and pins. After managing to measure him, which thankfully, he didn't have to strip for, as he feared, she dashed to the back, assumingly to grab more materials.

It was then he noticed the blond boy staring at him, though he was pretending not to do so, as every time Harry whirled his head at him, the git simply looked away. Finally catching him in the act after a few seconds, Harry's face formed into a deep scowl.

"Can you stop staring at me?"

The boy, defeated, looked back at him, finally free to stare openly. He raised a dainty, light eyebrow, his expression unchanged. "What spell hit you?" He drawled, crossing his arms while still dressed in his dark, long robes. Harry narrowed his gaze, turning his head away and by extension, his scarred cheek.

"Excuse me?"

"Your scars. I assume you got hit by some sort of hex?" The boy spoke with a light accent, though Harry couldn't pinpoint which one it was. Some sort of European one, maybe French? He didn't care, to be honest, as he was getting fairly annoyed by this kid pretty quickly.

"Uh, no. Fire." Harry said shortly, staring the boy down. The boy's grey eyes met his, seemingly unintimidated. Instead, he raised both of his eyebrows in disbelief, though his gaze was still half-lidded.

"Curious. There are spells to put out fires, you know. Not sure how it would've gotten big enough to damage your face; your parents were wizards, right? At least, I'd hope so." He mused, glancing down at his cuticles.

Why did Harry think the wizarding world would be any better than the orphanage? If anything, this kid was more pretentious than all of his peers combined. He smiled tightly, clenching his right fist in an attempt to restrain himself from strangling this pompous git.

"Yeah, I don't know. I'll go ask them about it next time I see them at the graveyard."

That seemed to shut the little frog up. He simply shrugged and looked away, and Harry knew the conversation was over. _Thank god_. Just as he spoke his last word, the tailor rushed back in, seemingly done, as she had a large smile on her face.

"Alright, dear, your robes are ready. You can go up to the counter and pay now." She nodded at Harry, who raised his eyebrow in pleasant surprise. That was quick; but when you have magic, life's easier, huh? He stepped down from the stool, grabbing his belongings and walked over towards the counter with Galleons in his hand, ready to pay. She accepted his coins and gave him a large bag, in which Harry noticed the dark fabric was neatly folded inside. Thanking her, he left the tailory and by extension, that blond rat. _Honestly_ , good riddance.

Outside, it didn't look too different than it did when he entered the shop, though the sky was a shade darker. With his bags in tow, he made his way back towards the entrance of Diagon Alley. The walk was fairly silent, as the stray wizards from before had assumedly left the alley. The only sound that filled his ears were the occasional flapping of wings and calls of crows, almost sounding like a soothing melody. What a long day.

At least there was only one month left. Though his expectations and hopes had been somewhat ruined by the few wizards he did interact with, he was still optimistic. He could set a new reputation for himself, even if it will be difficult to do so. If all failed and he wouldn't be able to gather any positive attention, then at least Harry could look forward to not having to sleep in that grey, plain room for the rest of the year.

After all, how _bad_ can Hogwarts really be?

* * *

 **Author's Note:** And we're off! Next stop: Hogwarts! If you managed to find this story and read 'till the end, then welcome, and I hope you stay along for the ride! It only goes downhill from here, and I don't mean it in writing quality, hehe. (; It's my first story in a looooong while, so I'm open to any constructive criticism. I've played around the wide of a burn-scar!Harry for a while, so I'm excited for its fruition, and I hope someone out there is too! If this idea or execution had been done before, please notify me, but keep in mind that I do have some plans thought out already that I hope will heavily differentiate this story. c:

Once again, thank you for reading and stay tuned for more!


	2. Carpe Diem

_**Wildfire**_

 **Chapter 2:** Carpe Diem

The dreamy and humid month of August seemed to come and go. As the wild summer slowly faded, the fresh signs of autumn soon replaced it through withering leaves and cooler weather. After thirty boring days, Harry finally found himself boarded on Hogwarts Express.

Ever since he came back to the orphanage from his shopping trip in Diagon Alley, Harry had locked himself up in his room and Cloverfield's library for days on end, curiously reading through his new peculiar schoolbooks. Upon his return from the magical district, he immediately realized that hiding his stranger materials from his peers was a priority, or else he would run into a pretty severe problem trying to explain why he had a weird cloak and a magic wand in his belongings.

Fortunately for him, it seemed that after the announcement that Harry would travel to a 'private boarding school in Scotland' reached the other orphans, they left him alone to his own bidding. If anything, he was thankful. He didn't want anyone ruining his month-long good mood, which was an uncommon event for him. His nights were spent sleepless from excitement, as he would count his days left daily. Soon enough, his count finally reached from thirty down to one.

When September finally rolled in, he packed all of his belongings, which quite frankly, weren't much. He didn't need a lot of clothes, not that he had much. All of his required materials didn't take up as much space as he expected, either. With one single borrowed suitcase, Harry bid his farewells to the Cloverfield's owner and Rosa, as the latter tearfully grabbed him into a hug and offered her best wishes. He smiled at the memory, realizing that out of everyone in the orphanage, he would miss the old cook the most. At least he was coming back next summer to see her, he supposed. He hoped she would still be there by then.

Travelling to downtown London and searching for his train station proved to be more stressful than he could've possibly imagined. He received his ticket for the train a few days prior, with Platform 9 ¾ supposedly being his assigned station. Harry frowned when he read through it, slowly wondering if this was some sort of prank. There wasn't any platform named 9 ¾, last time he checked. After some quiet, fruitless searching when he arrived at the metro, he overheard a large, red-haired family discuss the trip and at some point even mentioned Hogwarts. Sneakily eavesdropping on their conversation, Harry quickly learned that Platform 9 ¾ was magically hidden away from the public eye, so that certainly addressed his concerns. He then found himself simply standing from afar and watching the numerous members of the family dash and enter through a brick wall. After it was safe to assume that they all went through, he too dashed through with his suitcase in tow.

The experience was fairly nauseating, but thankfully it only lasted a few seconds. Once Harry was on the other side, the whole station was unrecognizable. Instead of a grey, modern train, a large, fiery red steam-powered train stood, decorated with a sign that read 'Hogwarts Express'.

So, here he was, an hour later. The train had long left and now, he was seated in a lonely, yet fairly comfortable compartment, watching England's rolling hills and rural greenery rapidly rush past him. Though he was slowly growing bored sitting in one confined place for such a long time, at least the view from the outside somewhat made up for it. After a few minutes, he pulled out one of his books that he carried with him onto the train and began skimming through it in attempt to satisfy his growing need to do _something_ , anything. The book didn't do much, but at least he wasn't doing nothing.

After what seemed like an hour, his blank thoughts were interrupted by a sharp rapping on the sliding door to his compartment. He glanced up curiously, only to be met with unapproved entering by the mysterious knocker. The boy who invited himself in was a fairly tall, lanky lad with bright red hair and freckles sprayed on his cheeks and nose. He appeared to be in the same year as Harry, as he looked no older than eleven. The mysterious boy seemed to be fairly distracted, as he looked at the seated boy with a blank, distant look.

"Hey, have you by any chance seen Nev- _bloody hell_ , mate!" He interrupted himself when he finally seemed to _notice_ Harry and his burns. He gawked at Harry, whose face immediately formed into a deep scowl as he hid behind his book. Blimey, well, this was going to go just _great_ , huh? The ginger-haired boy stood there with a bug-eyed expression for what seemed like minutes before he finally crossed his arms and leaned on the doorway, obviously in an attempt to play it cool.

"Merlin's beard, mate, did your oven explode in your face?" His voice, more relaxed now, was still in mild shock as he examined Harry with wide, blue eyes. The scarred boy, whose glare narrowed dangerously, seemed to intimidate the taller red-head. The tall boy simply frowned and put up his hands in a feeble form of self-defense.

"Woah, there, what's gotten your knickers in a twist? It was just a question." His high-pitched voice and thick accent began to sound grating to Harry's ears, whose frown deepened.

"Did you come here only to gawk at me? If so, you're free to leave." Harry's softer voice was a contrast to the red-haired boy's, who also narrowed his eyes in an offended manner.

"Ah, well, no. I was looking around to find Neville Longbottom, have you seen him?"

Harry quizzically raised a dark eyebrow at the given name, "Who?"

The tall boy's negative mood seemed to be washed away by the question, as his jaw dropped in surprise, "You've never heard of Neville Longbottom?"

"Was I supposed to?"

"Mate, he's the Boy Who Lived! He's, like, the only person to have survived You-Know-Who's attacks! Supposedly, his parents died in the process, but he survived and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was defeated in the attempt! He's basically a celebrity and he's supposed to be entering Hogwarts this year!"

"Interesting," Harry said dryly as he glanced up at the boy, "Now, can you leave? I don't really care and you're being pretty annoying right now, no offense."

The boy bristled and seemed to consider throwing an insult at Harry, before assumedly deciding that it wasn't worth it. He shrugged, backing out of the compartment. "Whatever. If you do see him though, find me and tell me, okay? I'm Ron Weasley, by the way."

"Pleasure," Harry replied blankly, before turning his attention back to his book. The boy, Ron, left silently, shutting the glass door behind him with a sharp thud as he muttered something under his breath.

Good riddance.

Immediately after his departure, a guilty feeling welled up in the pit of the raven-haired boy's stomach. What happened to getting a good reputation and establishing first impressions? Did he overreact? He could've held his tongue a tad longer, perhaps, and maybe he wouldn't look like a little twit in front of the first person he met on the train.

Letting out a deep sigh, he shrugged his shoulders. What's done is done, right? And who cares, honestly? He was probably better off without that boy, anyways. It wasn't the end of the world if one boy disliked him. Harry glanced down to memorize the page number he last read before shutting it with a soft clap. He really wasn't in the mood to read about the most influential wizards of the twentieth century anymore.

Wait a second.

Was it possible that the boy Weasley mentioned, Neville Longbottom, was in this book? He _did_ say he was a celebrity in the wizarding world, after all.

His thoughts racing a thousand miles an hour, Harry quickly reopened the new, immaculate book, skimming through countless pages until he could catch the aforementioned name.

Finally, after searching for a couple of minutes, he finally spotted Longbottom's name towards the end of the book.

" _Neville Longbottom,_

 _The Boy Who Lived"_

Harry's eye widened in surprise as he gripped the pages tightly. So, this guy was some sort of big deal around here, at such a young age, too?

" _Born to Frank and Alice Longbottom, Neville survived a deliberate attack orchestrated by the Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, at the age of six. One of the only wizards ever to survive the Killing Curse, his survival also brought the end of the Wizarding War and the reign of the Death Eaters."_

A shiver went down Harry's spine as his gaze travelled down the page, etching every word into his mind. He was unsure about some of the terms listed, but it didn't take a genius to see why Longbottom was a big deal. A line that did stick out to him was concerning the boy's age, "at the age of six". If they were in the same year, then all of this must've happened around the same time as the Fire.

" _There are spells to put out fires, you know. Not sure how it would've gotten big enough to damage your face; your parents were wizards, right?"_

The blond git from Diagon Alley's words echoed in his mind, causing his heart to beat a tad bit faster. Harry never spent too much time thinking about the Fire, instead preferring to repress it out of his memory for years to come, yet…

How _exactly_ did it reach such a point to destroy the house and his face? His parents were wizards, he knew that for sure. They went to Hogwarts and graduated when they reached of age. Were they caught off guard? Obviously, but wouldn't they be able to extinguish it with a flick of a wand? Or perhaps there wasn't a spell for it?

Magic was supposed to be a limitless power, though, wasn't it? If the modern world was able to extinguish fires with a fair bit of ease through technology, wouldn't wizards be able to do the same with magic?

It had to be a coincidence. Fires happen all the time, right? It was probably just some sort of sick coincidence that this Neville guy and Harry both lost their parents around the same time.

The world was cruel like that, after all. This was nothing new.

Sighing silently, Harry leaned his head against the window, relishing in the feeling of contrast between his leathery cheek and the cool, smooth glass. A sudden wave of drowsiness washed over him; how many hours of sleep did he get last night, anyways? If he was going to be on this train for the next couple of hours, then maybe he should take a nap… Before he could make a decision, his vision slowly darkened and the scarred boy slipped away from the world of consciousness.

* * *

The shrill melody of creaking metal and the low rumble of a decelerating steam behemoth drove Harry out of his dreamless state. Groaning tiredly, he reached up to wipe any remnants of sleep left in his stinging eye. Wearily, he tilted his head to the window, studying his surroundings. Oh, right, he was still on the train. Outside, the scenery had transformed itself into a golden-colored, natural wonderland.

A mountainous range replaced the emerald, dew-covered rolling hills from earlier. Instead, the cool and jagged peak of the earth was lined by the scorching, yet dimming light of the sun as it descended into the horizon. The sky, painted in a million ethereal shades of warm colors, was quickly beginning to darken, which answered Harry's earlier question of when. Squinting, he noticed a dark, grand shape from afar, resembling some sort of a medieval castle. Except he knew it wasn't just any old fortress.

Even from afar, Hogwarts stood tall and proud, its majestic architecture still timeless from centuries ago. Secluded from civilization, if a lone acolyte wondered upon these lands, they might simply shrug the structure off as some sort of castle from the feudalist age of Scotland. Maybe it was magically enchanted to be hidden? Harry shrugged off his musings, carefully pulling out his carry-on that held his uniform and robes.

As he stood up to lock the sliding door and cover the small window with a curtain, he began peeling his clothes off his body. Folding his plain, monochromatic clothing with attentive care, Harry turned to his uniform that was laid out on the other seat. The robes were chaste and restricting, perfect for an educational and magical environment. Slowly slipping on the pale, button-up shirt, the dark-haired boy savored in the cool yet coarse fabric that hugged his smooth, yet waxy skin. It felt loose, but it was his perfect size. He fidgeted with his cuffs for a brief moment, loosening them so they would fall limply on his hands. Glancing down at his right hand, he noticed that the sleeve concealed the majority of his scars. Smiling lightly to himself, he continued dressing in the multiple layers offered to him.

Finally slipping on his black, sleek cloak, he shoved his pile of discarded clothing into his bag along with his pristine book and briskly walked out of the compartment.

In the train's corridor, students of varying age was scrambling about, conversing amongst themselves and adding on last minute adjustments to their uniforms. The mood was buzzing and the scarred boy too let himself become intoxicated by it. He bit his chapped lower lip to conceal his growing grin and headed out towards his assigned exit. Noticing that no one else had their luggage along with them, he assumed that their belongings would be brought along separately. The walk through the slim, yet packed aisle left a claustrophobic feeling hanging over him, as if it was some sort of dark, thunderous cloud. He ignored the few gazes of the others around him, instead staring ahead. Thankfully, it seemed that most students was too concerned with their own ordeals to even spare him a look.

Outside, the boarding platform seemed to be covered by a wave of black as the chatter of excited youth filling the air. Harry glanced around, though it was hard to see through the sea of bodies. It didn't help that he was shorter than the majority of the crowd, too. A booming voice managed to pierce through the infinite prattle, causing the ebony-haired youth to flinch at the sharp contrast in volume. He glanced around, attempting to identify its speaker, whom he soon realized was Hagrid, the giant man from Diagon Alley.

"Firs' years! Firs' years o'here! Follow me!" The crowd seemed to slowly dissolve as Harry made his way towards the man along with a few of the other kids. The tensing in his shoulders slowly relaxed as he found himself able to breathe for the first time since he left his compartment in the train. He stopped when he finally reached the first years' group, all of whom were similar in height to him. Near him, he spotted that red-head from the train, Weasley, along with a short girl with bushy, frizzy hair that seemed to be bigger than her whole head. She seemed to be watching Hagrid dutifully, ignoring Weasley's conversation with another short, pudgy boy.

Wait a second.

Was _that_ Neville Longbottom?

Harry quickly came to the revelation that the shy boy he saw at Diagon Alley was the famed Neville Longbottom, the Boy Who Lived.

Huh.

That was a pleasant surprise, he supposed. Longbottom looked terrified and a tad bit humble, which was strange considering every wizard in Britain seemed to know his name and thought of him as some sort of god.

It did, however, peeve him to realize that Weasley's hunt for the poor boy was successful. He didn't particularly trust him and Harry, quite frankly, pitied Longbottom a bit, as he was worried that the bothersome, celebrity-obsessed boy would corrupt him.

Oh, well. It didn't concern him.

After what he supposed was the entirety of the first years finished gathering at the platform, Hagrid led the group of students off onto a stray, dark path. Harry found himself vaguely wondering if this is where he would die or get sold off to a black market, but everyone else seemed fairly calm, so perhaps not. By that point, the sun had completely set, leaving the outdoors darkened and silent save for the lone calls of crows. Around him, hushed whispers filled his ears and a few giggles broke out, though they were quickly silenced by the turn of Hagrid's massive form.

The relative silence was cracked by loud, collective gasps as the path dissembled itself into a large clearing that overlooked a clear, dark lake. The warm early September weather slowly wore off as a cool breeze brushed through his hair from the direction of the water. Harry flinched softly, squinting as he attempted to identify what was the other side of the great lake. The lake itself was decorated by numerous wooden boats, all perched near the shore. Hagrid gestured towards them with a grand sweep of his arm.

"No more'n four a boat! The ride'll take a few minutes, s'hang on tight!" Within a few minutes of careful boarding and quiet shuffling, Harry found himself boarded on the creaky canoe with Weasley, Longbottom and the girl. As if on cue, the boats began to float across the still lake, softly squeaking occasionally.

It was fairly awkward, to say the least. Harry quickly realized that Weasley recognized him, as he was pointedly ignoring him while he stared ahead. The girl, who sat with a stiff posture and her legs crossed, also seemed to not pay him any attention, either. A vague feeling of someone staring at him ran down his spine and Harry glanced over at Longbottom, who squeaked and blushed in embarrassment, before he glanced down at his lap. Harry sighed silently, turning his head away from the shy, brown-haired boy. Good grief.

The peaceful ride seemed to come to a close after the fleet crossed a dark tunnel, which revealed a rocky harbour, damp from its contact with the lake's shore. They all unboarded carefully, following Hagrid and the light of his ancient lamp with an unnatural obedience. Climbing up a passageway, they finally stopped when they reached the feudalist, stone castle and its grandiose, oak door. Hagrid turned around and surveyed the group carefully, probably making sure that no one drowned back at the lake. He offered a comforting, yet joyful grin to the nervous group.

"Everyone here? Well, 'ere goes nothin'! Welcome to Hogwarts!" Knocking thrice with a sharp rack of his knuckles, the doors immediately swung open.

The wave of dark-robed students waddled in after Hagrid, simultaneously jumping at the sudden shutting of the door when the last boy stepped in. The halls themselves were similar to what Harry expected from the castle's external appearance. Cold and built from stone, lavish red carpets covered the old floors. Overhead, a wooden chandelier, consisting of floating candles, loomed over them, as it casted a deep shadow near the marble staircase. The walls, lined with cracks and age, were decorated with medieval-esque torches and paintings that seemed like they were straight out of the Renaissance era, though that wasn't the weirdest part. The figures inside the paintings were _moving_. Waving politely and nodding at the nervous students, they tried to offer comforting smiles. It seemed to somewhat work.

At the peak of the grand and pristine staircase, a willowy witch stood, intimidatingly watching over the lot with a hawk-like gaze. She had dark hair lined with grey strands, neatly brushed back into a tight bun. Her face was fairly old, covered in some wrinkles, which seemed to be enhanced by her stern frown. She was dressed in long, dark pine robes, firmly gripping a scroll of parchment and her twisted, wooden wand in her hands.

"The firs' years, Professor McGonagall," Hagrid introduced them, politely bowing his head to the intelligent witch. She acknowledged his respects with a nod of her own, before gesturing towards the wave of students. "Thank you, Hagrid. I will take over from here." Without another word, Hagrid turned back towards the entrance, his thunderous footsteps echoing in the hall for seconds to come, even after he was gone. The students filed near the wise professor, glancing up at her curiously and expectantly. She cleared her throat politely after a moment.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," she announced, her voice clear and powerful. If she weren't a teacher, Harry figured she would make a fine politician, or perhaps even a ruthless dictator. One or the other.

"The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly. Before that, however, all of you will participate in the process of Sorting. It is a mandatory ceremony that has been part of tradition since Hogwarts' establishment. While studying here, you will be sorted into one of the four houses. Your house will essentially become your family during your time here. You will dine with your housemates, attend classes with them, sleep in your assigned dormitories and spend your leisurely time in your house's common room." McGonagall spoke, never wavering. She seemed to capture the students' attention perfectly, as it was so silent that one could hear a pin drop.

"The four Houses are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin," she paused to take a breath, never breaking her glance off the sea of bodies, "Each house has its own deep, noble history, with all of them having their fair share of famous and great alumni. Your successes and failures will both win or lose you points for your house and at the end of the year, the House Cup will be awarded to the house that gathers the most points. It's a long-term and heavily-investing competition, so make your decisions carefully."

McGonagall's stony gaze landed on Harry's row, glancing between him, Longbottom and Weasley. Her eyes landed on the raven-haired boy and lingered on his scars for just a moment. His leathery hand protectively reached up to cover his striking scars and he tilted his head ever so slightly away from her, unblinking. Finally, she began speaking again. Honestly, talk about enjoying the sound of your own voice, Harry inwardly huffed.

"The Sorting Ceremony will occur within a few minutes in front of the school's populus, I suggest that you all gather your confidence and wits while you wait." She made her way towards the intricate, oaken door, which assumedly lead into another cold, long hall. With her graceful hand placed on the large handle, she gave them one last cold look. "Please wait here until my return." Without another word, McGonagall opened the door and left.

"Talk about a charmer," Weasley muttered to the bushy-haired girl, who simply clicked her tongue in disapproval.

"Oh, shut it, you. Don't be so disrespectful." She huffed, crossing her arms. Her voice was snooty and proud, yet she kept it at a lower volume than the ginger boy.

"I'm not wrong," Weasley shrugged, before turning to Longbottom, who also looked fairly uncomfortable with his rude tone. Actually, Harry couldn't tell if it was because of his tone, as the poor boy seemed to be anxious 24/7.

The chamber was filled with whispers and giggles, though they had a nervous nature to them, as no one seemed to know exactly what the Sorting Ceremony consisted of. Luckily for them, McGonagall returned within minutes and waved them over. They climbed up the elegant, marble staircase, briskly following her out of the hall.

The walk itself was shorter than their first one, yet it felt warmer and even lighter. The halls were lined with torches, softly illuminated by the constant light. Right before they reached the regal, double doors that assumedly lead to the hall where the banquet would take place, the middle-aged witch turned around to glance at the group of first years, stopping them in their tracks.

"Form a neat, single-filed line," she commanded, to which they quickly reacted. Suddenly, Harry found himself standing behind Longbottom, whose posture was tense. Behind him stood Weasley, who didn't meet his glance. The line began to shift and move forwards, obediently following behind McGonagall, whose stride was swift and unwavering.

As they entered the dining hall, Harry's jaw dropped. It was unlike anything he has ever seen. Bright and opulent, the hall was _gigantic_. Over a few hundred students sat seated, who all collectively turned to glance at the line of first years. Some cooed in affection, while others snickered and whispered amongst themselves, perhaps making bets or pointing out dense-looking kids. The hall, lightened by an enormous chandelier and scattered, floating candles, consisted of four large, picnic-like tables. Up ahead, a long curved table was situated at a slightly higher platform, seating a long array of unique, adult individuals, presumably the professors and staff.

In the grand center, a lone wooden stool stood. Placed on top of it was a worn-out and ancient witch's hat, though Harry quickly realized it wasn't any ordinary hat. Wait a second, did it just _move_?

With minimal warning, the hat twitched, before inhaling a sharp, dramatic breath. Can hats breathe? Harry's question would stay unanswered as the rip in its folds opened wide and the Sorting Hat broke out into a song.

Somewhere mid-song, Harry stopped paying attention to its lyrics. Instead, he curiously glanced around, eyeing the students situated in each table. The only difference between the groups were additional accessories to their uniforms, like ties and badges. He spotted that there were four different kinds, all assumedly differentiating them into their own houses.

The hall broke out in applause when the hat sang out its last word and Harry fumbled around, hesitantly clapping along. It entered its dormant, still state quickly after. McGonagall then stepped forward, unfolding her mysterious roll of parchment. Clearing her throat, she gazed at the first years once more.

"When I call your name, step forwards and sit on the stool. You will don the Sorting Hat then to be Sorted. Abbott, Hannah!" She called out and a blonde girl scrambled towards her. She gingerly sat down on the creaky stool, flinching as the professor lowered the hat onto her head.

"Hufflepuff!" The hat shouted out and the hall broke out in applause.

So, this is how it was going to go, huh?

The process was fairly mundane from there on. McGonagall went through the list alphabetically and Harry found himself spacing out, dimly applauding every time he heard the Hat shout out.

"Granger, Hermione!"

The bushy-haired girl from earlier sighed shakily and tensely walked up forwards, her legs stiff and mechanical. She sat down, shrinking under the hat and the pressure of the hall's stares.

"Gryffindor!"

Hermione let out a sigh of relief, almost running off the platform as she was heartily welcomed to the Gryffindor table.

After a few moments, another interesting Sorting occurred.

"Longbottom, Neville!"

A tension-filled silence washed over the hall, though it was slightly cracked by harsh, fiery whispering.

"Longbottom?"

"Is that the _real_ Neville Longbottom?"

"The Boy Who Lived?"

Bloody hell, Harry hoped that poor kid wasn't hearing all of this. The students leaned forwards a tad bit closer, looking at the seated boy hungrily, akin to vultures.

The Hat seemed to take its sweet time with Sorting him. They must've stood there for minutes on end until finally, it called out its decision.

"Gryffindor!"

A burst of applause, louder than any other that night, exploded. Some of the older students situated at the Gryffindors' table stood up and whooped, excitedly yelling out.

"Alright, we've got Longbottom!"

"Whoo!"

"Let's go!"

Shyly, Longbottom waddled over towards the long table that seemed to be parted like the sea was by Moses. Some Gryffindors gestured towards free seats near them, hoping to sit close to the Boy Who Lived.

Must be nice being wanted so much.

Harry tried not to wallow too deep in self-pity, instead turning his attention back to the hat.

The Sorting Ceremony continued without any further delays and only did the dim aching of Harry's feet make him wonder how long they had been standing here.

"Malfoy, Draco!"

The blond boy from the tailory in Diagon's Alley sauntered up. Harry raised an eyebrow at the pompous young boy, whose head barely made contact with the Hat before it shouted out, "Slytherin!"

The line was less than half filled now.

Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, McGonagall finally announced his name.

"Potter, Harry!"

Though his name didn't gather any unique attention with the student body, Harry noticed several of the teachers lean a tad bit forward in curiosity. Perhaps some of them taught his parents? It wouldn't surprise him.

His feet felt numb as he made his way up. McGonagall, who glanced down at him with her notable stern look, seemed to narrow her gaze at him ever so slightly, her expression briefly shifting into one of pity. Once he situated himself on the wooden stool, she carefully placed the Hat on his head, letting it slowly drop until it covered his vision. A small, elderly male voice then filled his ears.

" _You're a curious one, aren't you?"_

Letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding, Harry tightly gripped his wrist in worry.

" _Fairly difficult, too. Oh my, whatever shall I do with you? Very intelligent and hard-working, too. I see a lot of courage, though. Hmm… Oh, what's this?"_

The Hat fell silent for a moment and Harry's heart was thudding so quickly, he wouldn't be surprised if everyone in the hall heard the drumming of his heartbeat.

" _Lonely and distrustful, aren't you? You deeply long for positive attention from others and their praise, yet you don't want to get close to anyone, hm? Almost as if you're afraid of getting hurt by those you love... And, oh my, you may be young, but you seem to be incredibly driven by spite."_

His healthy eye prickled with tears and Harry glanced down at his lap. What was this, some sort of a crude therapy session?

" _Tell me, my dear boy, do you want to reach your full potential? To achieve greatness? To be the_ best _there is? Wait, I know the answer to that: you do. But…_ Are _you capable of doing so?"_ The Hat sounded amused, yet its whispering slowly grew louder.

Silence filled the air for a few moments as the young wizard pondered upon the questions given to him.

"Yes." He breathed, with a tone of finality, "I can, and I will." Chuckling heartily to itself, the Hat hummed, " _I see. Well, thank me later, young man."_

"Slytherin!"

Polite applause echoed in the Great Hall and the Sorting Hat was slipped off his messy-haired head. The Slytherin table appeared to be the only group that was looked interested in the young boy's placement. As he slid off the stool and made his way towards the table, an older student offered his seat to him with a reassuring smile. Only then did Harry realize that he must've had a sour look on his face, as he gave his senior a shy smile back and slid in on the student's left. Unfortunately for him, that seat was also right beside Malfoy's.

Sitting down on the sturdy, wooden bench, Malfoy looked up at him with a bored expression, his chin cupped by his hand. He raised his eyebrows at his new housemate, though his gaze stayed half-lidded. Harry glanced away from him, studying the texture of the table in front of him.

The rest of the ceremony continued fairly peacefully. There were a few more students placed in Slytherin, one of them was a boy named Blaise Zabini, who was given a seat across Malfoy. Harry vaguely noted that Weasley was Sorted into Gryffindor along with Granger and Longbottom. How curious, though he wasn't particularly surprised, as they have been attached to the leg of one another since they stepped off the train.

When the last student was Sorted, the elderly man seated in the center of the elevated platform stood. Raising his eyebrow, Harry turned his attention to him when he noticed the other students doing the same. The aged wizard, presumably the Headmaster, stood at an average height. His frailty was mainly concealed by his long, heavy silver robes. He smiled fondly at the students seated through his long, snowy beard before he began speaking, a soft yet powerful sound radiated the room.

"Welcome! Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts, to both newcomers joining us and to those returning for another year. I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of this lovely and noble school. Before we proceed with our banquet, I would like to leave you off with a few words: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!"

With a wave and a bow of his head, he gracefully sat down. A mixture of uncertain applause and enthusiastic cheering filled the air. Harry found himself glancing at Malfoy for some sort of help, but he also looked fairly perplexed. Maybe coming to this school was a bad idea.

However, his regrets quickly washed away when the golden plates decorating the table sprouted into various courses, all of different textures, aromas and design. The only way Harry could describe it as was a feast. The sudden appearance of the savory dishes gathered wonder-filled gasps and excited chatter. Any dinner dish he could think of was found present on the table, freshly prepared and steaming. Roasted, greasy chicken covered in flaky parsley and ripe lemon juice lay in front of him, placed daintily beside various other types of expertly-prepared meat. Honey-glazed ham dressed in apples, creamy mushroom soup and cool oysters bathed in dark sauce all caught his eye. Large plates of juicy, seared lamb and pork chops enhanced by fried peas and carrots were scattered around, curiously placed right beside flavorful, crunchy salads of vibrant greens. Soft, fleecy mashed potatoes enveloped in melted butter were accompanied by mouth-watering, steaming Yorkshire pudding and a gravy boat. Further down the table, there were more courses, but Harry was more than satisfied with the options laid out in front of him.

Mouth watering and hands trembling, as soon as the others began filling their own dishes with various foods, Harry, too, joined in on the feast. Grabbing a bit of everything onto his plate, the boy dived into his meal, though not without manners. He was _starving_ , but he still had to keep up with appearances, right? As he savored in the flavorful foods, he decided to tune in and listen to the various conversations occurring around him.

"Don't even get me started on the Holyhead Harpies, they're absolutely _atrocious_." Malfoy was loudly ranting to a deadpanned Zabini, who was simply watching the blond boy speak with a raised eyebrow.

Harry wasn't sure how he expected Zabini's voice to sound like, but he knew it wasn't the soft-spoken tone that did leave his mouth after he finished politely chewing, "Why do you think so? Do you dislike female players, or something?" Harry turned to look at Malfoy expectantly, curiously awaiting his answer as he absent-mindedly scooped a chunk of mashed potatoes with his fork. Malfoy rolled his eyes, waving off Zabini with a gesture of his hand.

"What gave you that idea? No, I don't hate women, bloody hell. I just hate the Harpies' smug auras they radiate despite having a poor defense and an even worse Keeper. I swear, if I have to see Rosenfeld try to block the Quaffle and miss one more time, I'll puke."

Zabini hummed in thought, his youthful yet gaunt face breaking out into a soft smile, "Then I hope I won't be seated next to you when you go to their next match."

Harry snorted, quickly glancing down at his plate when Malfoy whirled his head at him, staring him down with a pointed look. "Oh, Potter, I almost forgot you were eavesdropping this whole time." The blond Slytherin said offhandedly, taking a long sip out of his shiny gold goblet.

The scarred boy felt his face heat up in embarrassment, "I don't see how it's really eavesdropping when you're talking loudly at a dinner table right beside me…"

Malfoy raised his eyebrows at him, smirking ever so slightly. "I never said anything was wrong, Potter. Honestly, you should've seen your face, you were as pale as a ghost. Well, almost." He turned to Zabini, who was also glancing at Harry with a mixture of boredom and disgust. His dark gaze lingered on his burnt scars for a few moments, to which the smaller boy simply shrunk at. The two returned to their conversation after a minute of awkward silence, albeit this time, they spoke with a quieter tone.

The rest of his dinner was spent in relative silence. Harry caught some interesting gossip, yet this time, he made sure to not react, no matter how stupid or amusing the conversation as. At some point, the gut-wrenching sensation of being watched creeped down his spine. Harry briefly glanced around, his gaze finally landing on the staff's table. It was far away, though he was still able to clearly see the figures seated. Sure enough, one of them was glancing at him. Not in his direction, but directly at _him_.

Seated perpendicular to the Slytherins' section, near the corner of the High Table, were two men in a middle of a conversation. Actually, that wasn't quite right, it seemed that one was simply talking the entire time to the other. The chattering man looked fairly nervous, though it wasn't surprising to see why. He was frail and small, in spite of his young age. With a pale, clean-shaven face and a dark, lavish turban, he had his hands clasped together as he was pointedly staring at the sullen, listening man. The latter had a politely impassive expression, yet it might've been exaggerated by his intimidating, dreary appearance. He was dressed in all black and his shoulder-lengthed, greasy dark hair seemed to blend right in with his attire. The only color contrast he had was in the form of his thin, pale face, which carried a disinterested expression. He glanced around while the man with the turban was speaking, studying the rest of the hall and its inhabitants until his piercing gaze finally landed on Harry.

The bespectacled boy blinked, unsure what to make out of it. Within a second, the man turned his attention back to his nervously babbling co-worker and Harry was left wondering whether or not he imagined the whole experience. Oh, well. It wasn't a big deal.

After dinner was deemed over by everyone's satisfaction and tired conversations, the leftovers and messy plates vanished. Immediately after, a new array of various desserts popped in their place. Harry's face brightened in childish excitement as he glanced between the dishes. The dinner feast was amazing, but this was simply _wondrous_. Back in Cloverfield, he never really got to experience and taste really exquisite or fancy desserts, instead sufficing to freshly baked cookies and pies. But Hogwarts proved itself to once again be a magical place, quite literally. On the table, desserts of all kinds were laid out daintily. Small bowls of cold, refreshing ice cream were scattered in iridescent shades; oranges, blues, pinks, creams; all vibrant flavors waiting to be tried. The aroma of the crispy, buttery pastries fresh from the oven filled his nostrils as he eyed them, the pies and tarts lathered in warm honey and sweet syrups looked incredibly soft and mouthwatering. He vaguely noted that there was a wooden basket filled with ripe fruits, both exotic and common, but he didn't pay too much attention to it. He couldn't possibly care about simple fruits when every dessert he could think of was laid out right in front of him. Chilled cakes stood proud, artfully crafted with different frosting designs and small berries.

He could get used to this.

Smiling brightly to himself, he began to cover his plate with tarts and slices of cake. Harry had to restrain himself with all his strength to not grab any more sweets, or else he knew he would regret it in the morning. Kids around him also glanced at the desserts with a gluttonous glint in their eyes as they shoved as many desserts as possible onto their plates. One of the Slytherin first-year's plates resembled a jagged mountain within seconds. Harry inwardly flinched, he would have to brace himself for tomorrow's complaining, wouldn't he? He hoped that he wouldn't have to share a room with that guy.

Dessert seemed to last shorter than dinner did, as after half an hour, the cheery, celebratory mood wore off and was washed over by a soft, quiet coziness. Conversations got quieter and more peaceful as nighttime approached. Silence fully fell on the hall when Dumbledore rose out of his seat once more, gazing at the exhausted students, as they all obediently and respectfully met his glance. Clearing his throat and smiling slightly, the old Headmaster began to speak.

"Before the banquet ends, I would like to make a few announcements and notices. Firstly, it should be noted that all students are prohibited from entering the Forbidden Forest that is located on school grounds. When I say all students, I do quite mean, _all_ students." Dumbledore paused, glancing at the Gryffindor table with an amused, yet warning look. Harry raised an eyebrow at the notion, yet respectfully stayed silent as the Headmaster began speaking again.

"Additionally, using magic is prohibited in the corridors between classes. Starting next week, Quidditch trials will be held for second-year students and above. Those eligible may contact Madame Hooch. Finally, it should be noted that the right wing of the third floor corridor is restricted to everyone, or you may face a painful death." He finished off with a grim note, frowning suddenly.

A tense silence filled the hall until Dumbledore finally smiled again, clasping his hands together. "Well, I wish you all luck in your first, or another, year at Hogwarts! Cheers!" With that, the banquet was over and slowly, the students all left the Great Hall into their dormitories.

* * *

By high noon of the next day, Harry Potter was exhausted.

The sudden change in environment, lifestyle and living arrangements had left him mentally winded within hours. Sure, he was enjoying himself, he supposed, but it was still difficult. It always took him a fair while to get used to drastic changes, after all. Yet he strived forwards.

Stifling a yawn, Harry took his time making his way towards his Potions class. He was fairly early, anyways, so he wasn't exactly worried. He glanced down at the books grasped in his arms, his thoughts slowly roaming elsewhere.

Honestly, what a day.

It would take him a few days to memorize the layout of his new, temporary home. It didn't exactly help that the Slytherin dungeons were, well, what it said on the tin. Dungeons.

 _That_ was an interesting journey. Last night, after dinner ended, an older Slytherin student, supposedly titled a Prefect, led him and the first-years towards the dungeons and by extension, their dormitories. Apparently, every time you wanted to enter the common room you had to use a password, which slightly irked Harry. Oh, well. He'd get used to it, at least.

The password, which supposedly changed every week, was ' _Carpe Diem'_. Harry smiled at the memory. 'Seize the day', huh? Truly the ambitious folk they were, those Slytherins. And now, he was one of them.

The Slytherin common room was honestly fairly beautiful in its own way. Because they were underground and right near the lake, Harry got a perfect view of the underwater through the windows that decorated the chamber's stone walls. The common room was fairly dark, its only form of lighting coming from the fireplace and some smaller spherical green lights that hung from the ceiling. Harry also noted the room permanently had a green tint to it, which always brought rough adjusting to when he would come back from class. The room was also fairly large and had a permanent cold feel, quite literally. There were a few tables, sofas, chess tables and bookshelves all scattered around, clearly all part of the same furniture set. They were crafted from dark, oaken wood and the sofa was made from real leather, something that shocked him when he stepped in and felt it for the first time. It was fairly homely, yet intimidating at the same time.

Harry loved it.

Another positive change was that apparently, Slytherin students slept in single rooms. He honestly was fearful that he would have to share his room with some randie, or even worse, Malfoy, but his hopes were clearly answered by some force above. Unfortunately for him, he was the last to claim a room, but his wasn't so bad, actually. Though he felt like a medieval prisoner chucked into the dungeons in his room, it was decorated fairly lavishly, surprisingly. A double bed garnished with a dark cherry frame and jade-green sheets was in the centre, surrounded by end tables, a desk and wardrobe of the same wood. The rest of the room was fairly blank and dreary, with stone walls and a cold, grey floor.

Though for what it was, it was pretty snazzy. The furniture was obviously fashioned from a high quality material, assumedly so it would last a long time without needing replacing. It also left a lot of opportunities for him to decorate his new room however he wanted, which was always a nice bonus.

Plenty of privacy all for him, which was just what he needed after four years in that hellhole of an orphanage. It also seemed like his fellow Slytherins were fairly reserved and tended to keep to themselves, so honestly, he had no complaints.

Sighing fondly, Harry finally reached the door to his Potions class after minutes of walking. It was also in the dungeons, which provided a nice chill in the humid weather, but he could see how it could quickly go sour, especially during the winter time. He was the first one there, which made sense, he supposed, as it was still lunch hour back at the Great Hall. With no one to converse with and a small appetite to begin with, he was able to finish eating quickly and begin to walk down to his class.

He found himself wondering how his Potions class would go. So far, he had only attended Transfigurations and Charms, both of which he could only really describe as 'okay'. The classes were interesting enough and he was neutral on McGonagall's stern cleverness and Flitwick's cheery nature, though nothing about them particularly stuck out. They seemed to feel mutually about him, too, so that was nice. He did, however, quickly pick up on the slight difference between their treatment of Slytherins and whoever the other house was at the time. His first class, Charms, was shared with Ravenclaws, while his Transfigurations class was shared with Gryffindors. It was… interesting, to say the least. Ravenclaws seemed like a decent enough bunch, but Gryffindors were _atrocious_. Honestly, he was more than happy to take his leave to lunch after his last class, because he was quickly getting tired of them. It didn't help that Weasley and his friends were in Gryffindor, either.

To be perfectly honest, Harry didn't have a problem with Longbottom. He was nice enough, he supposed, though it did slightly bother him how the pudgy boy appeared to be in a permanent state of nervousness. His other friend, Granger, wasn't _that_ bad, either, but she did get annoying sometimes due to her know-it-all nature. Weasley was a whole other can of worms that Harry didn't even want to think about before his next class.

With his class starting in fifteen minutes, he still had some time to loaf around. Leaning against a cold, cobblestone wall, Harry slowly slid down and sat on the cold floor, drawing his legs into a cross-legged position. Maybe he could take a peek through his Potions textbook while he waited, after all, it was always nice to get a head start, wasn't it?

He'd quickly come to regret his decision, however, as he realized that most of the terms just seemed like gibberish to him. Bezoars, asphodel roots, snake fangs; it grew worse when he thought he might've seen a goat's stomach mentioned near the first odd entry. Now he knew what _that_ meant, he shuddered in disgust.

Shutting his book hesitantly when he heard footsteps approaching down the hall, Harry sighed softly in an attempt to calm his nerves. With an absent-minded sweep, he tugged down on a chunk of hair to feebly cover his scars, yet it failed, like always.

He had a _really_ bad feeling about this class.

And unfortunately for him, his gut feelings seemed to always come true, as when he found himself seated beside Malfoy of all people in the dreary, dark class, he knew this class would be a fiasco. Potions was supposedly a double period, so he was stuck in this cold layer of hell for two hours, seated beside Malfoy and… Oh, god, what were _they_ doing here?

As each house didn't have enough first years to fill up a class, Harry found himself surrounded by his own housemates and Gryffindors, again.

After a few minutes when the last flock of the students walked in, a group consisting of Longbottom-Weasley-Granger, the class fell fairly silent. There were some side conversations, but they mostly were self-contained to whispers and giggles.

However, their voices quickly died down when the professor strode in. The door loudly opened behind them, causing the majority of the class to whirl their heads behind them and try to identify who the mysterious figure was. With dark robes flowing and sharp clicking of his footsteps, the tall professor turned to assess his class with a disgusted expression planted on his face. Harry quickly recognized him to be the same man who was staring at him last night, at the banquet. Raising an eyebrow at the his over-dramatic actions, the scarred boy leaned back in his seat. This should be interesting.

"So," the professor finally spoke after a moment, as he gazed down at a shy Gryffindor near the front, who yelped in fear. The man's voice was incredibly soft and quiet, almost as if he was whispering. Harry had to strain his ears to hear him, though his intimidating aura seemed to keep the entire class quiet enough for a pin to drop, similar to McGonagall.

"It seems that I will be teaching another class filled with simpletons. Pity." He sighed, brushing stray, greasy black hair out of his gaunt face with a swift sweep of his hand. Harry's eye twitched irritably, yet he was also entranced. He didn't think he could speak up to this mysterious, dark man even if he tried. Whether or not it was out of fear or just pure, morbid curiosity, he didn't know.

Apparently, he wanted his message to deeply seep in with the students and their moods, as the Potions professor took long pauses and silences in the middle of his sentences. To be frank, it was beginning to be quite distracting and even annoying. Harry used the opportunity to glance over at Malfoy, who he was surprised to see was staring at the professor with a deep respect. What was going on? This class was quickly beginning to feel like some sort of a fever dream.

Finally, the greasy-haired man made his way back to the front of the class, glaring down at the rest of the class, who seemed to shrink under his deep, dark stare. "I am Severus Snape, your Potions professor for the foreseeable future…" He paused, crossing his arms, before continuing, "I demand respect within this classroom, and I will receive nothing less. Is that understood?" Seemingly satisfied with the fearful nods that he was met with, he continued once more.

"Good. Now, before I proceed with the lesson, I will be taking the roll call. I will not accept any foolery, so do not dare try anything. Millicent Bulstrode?"

"Present."

And so it went. For all his unnecessary dramatic pauses, Snape was fairly efficient with the process, until he landed on Longbottom's name.

"Neville Longbottom?"

"Ah, p-present."

"It seems, class, that we have been _graced_ by a celebrity, hm?" He sneered, glancing back down at the roll of parchment in his hand. Harry noticed Longbottom biting his lip sheepishly as his ears flared a bright, beet-like red.

Only one more digression occurred during the roll call and that was when he finally reached Harry's name. He paused, glancing up at the scarred boy, who was determined to meet his gaze with an equal one of his own. He flinched ever so slightly when Snape's dark eyes lingered on his scar for just a moment, though his expression remained unchanged.

"Harry Potter?"

"Present, sir."

The class seemed to quickly pick up on the sudden tension in the room, curiously darting their eyes between the two. Hushed whispers filled the air and Harry felt deep stares from all around the room, yet he dared not look. Hesitantly, his scarred hand reached up to weakly cover his leathery cheek, but he hoped that his stare remained unnerved.

Fortunately for him, Snape broke off his gaze first, returning his attention back to the attendance scroll. Harry let out a silent sigh of relief, duly noting Malfoy and Weasley's curious and shocked stares at him. Yet the whispering continued until the professor softly spoke out, "Silence," which ceased all voices. It was almost like a spell, yet his wand was nowhere to be seen.

Huh.

After finishing going through the fairly short roll of parchment, it disappeared from his hands with a faint pop. The tall, dreary man then continued on speaking, giving a long-winded, dramatic speech that Harry quite frankly, stop paying attention to within a few seconds. He _supposed_ it sounded cool, with all the mentions of glory and shimmering potions, but he honestly thought the man just liked the sound of his own voice, similar to McGonagall. The class, however, seemed to be hooked on to every word. Good grief.

Suddenly, a chuckle slipped out from the right corner of the room and all heads snapped towards its direction. Weasley's face flushed into a red as bright as his hair when he sensed the impending doom of humiliation as Snape glanced up at him. Without hesitation, he made his way towards the boy's desk, his dark cloak flying behind him dramatically.

Harry raised an eyebrow, suddenly interested in the foreboding event. Beside him, he heard Malfoy let out a quiet yet excited mutter, "Oh, this is going to be good…" Harry leaned his jaw onto his palm, trying to suppress the growing grin on his face. So far, he didn't have a high opinion of Snape, yet it was always amusing to see other kids get in trouble, especially ones like Weasley.

"Chatty, are we?" He softly spoke, looming over Longbottom and Weasley, who were both frozen as they cautiously glanced up the intimidating figure standing above them. "I see, then. Let's have a chat, boys. In front of the class, if you will. No need to whisper amongst each other, now." He crossed his arms and Longbottom had the shame to bloom into a scarlet red as he glanced down at his own lap in an attempt to avoid the professor's stare.

"Tell me, Mr. Weasley, what is a bezoar used for and where would you find one?"

Weasley opened his mouth and closed it akin to a fish, "I-uh…" He spluttered, anxiously glancing at Longbottom, who looked as fear-struck as his red-haired friend. Behind him, Granger, with a desperate expression, raised her arm high in the air.

"And you, Mr. Longbottom?"

Longbottom shrunk in his seat, nervously biting his lip, "I...I don't know, sir…"

Harry let out a snort, though he quickly realized that he made a grave mistake when Snape whirled his head at him. Using the short-lived opportunity, Weasley glared over at Harry from across the room. This was some form of karma, wasn't it?

"Oh? I suppose Mr. Potter has the answer, then? Enlighten us, if you will."

As he felt his face flare up and the weight of the stares all around him, Harry shrunk in his seat, desperately trying to rack his brain for an answer. He knew he read it somewhere in the book… Think, think, think…

When it finally dawned on him that he read the term only half an hour prior, he almost gasped excitedly, but the fearful, intimidating mood forbade him from doing so. He willed himself to glance up and meet his teacher's bored, dark gaze.

"Ah, a bezoar is part of a goat's stomach, isn't it, sir?" The burnt boy began hesitantly, his hand protectively reaching up near his cheek. "Like, a sort of stone. I'm not fully sure, sir."

The greasy-haired professor snapped his head back at Weasley, who yelped in fear at the sudden gesture. "See? Even Potter here knows, what's your excuse? However, you haven't answered the question fully." He clicked his tongue disapprovingly, still pointedly ignoring a certain bushy-haired girl's tense, determined hand in the air.

Uh, oh.

Harry glanced back down at his lap, biting his lip. He had hoped that Snape wouldn't notice that he only gave half an answer, but the stars weren't smiling down on Harry today.

"I don't know, sir…" The boy's voice lowered, glancing down at his cold, clammy hands in shame. He hated this nasty, embarrassing feeling. It always deeply frustrated him when he was unable to answer something, whether it be minor, such as the date or a difficult question such as this one. It infuriated him, as all it did really was convince everyone else that he wasn't good enough. 'Wow, the ugly burnt kid was also stupid?' Honestly, how pathetic.

Harry vowed to himself that next time, he would be able to answer. He had to be better than everyone else, more capable. He had to be smarter, more hard-working, more dedicated. He always felt like he was worst, so in result, he had to strive to be the best… right?

So, was _this_ why he was placed in Slytherin?

After all, they valued ambition, determination, cunningness; all traits that Harry desired to possess.

Next time he would see the Sorting Hat, he'll be sure to thank it.

However, his spiteful and ambitious daydreaming was swiftly shattered by the Potions Master's soft voice, "Let this be a lesson to all of you, any disruptions will not be tolerated. And for your information, bezoars have healing properties and will cure most known poisons. You all would be wise to remember that."

With a last flourish of his cape, Snape swiftly made his way to the front as he proceeded with the first lesson. He assigned all of the students into paired groups, where together they would collaborate to create a beginner's potion, apparently one that would cure boils with just a few gulps. Unfortunately for Harry, because he was already seated beside Malfoy, he was paired up with the blond git.

He was surprised to find out, though, that Malfoy wasn't half bad at Potions. Actually, he was more than good. He was excellent, really; with a mere glance at the old, withering textbook, he was able to efficiently chop ingredients and combine them in the steaming cauldron with minimal hesitation.

Harry's open, viridescent eye widened in surprise as he glanced to his left to find Malfoy expertly crushing snake fangs with a loose flourish of his pale hand. Even Snape, who was slowly gliding around the room with a disapproving and sometimes, disgusted, scowl raised an eyebrow at Malfoy's craftsmanship, yet he made no comment.

"Wow," Harry felt his jaw drop as he watched Malfoy in his element, "you're pretty good at this, Malfoy." He couldn't keep the wonder out of his normally dull tone, entranced by his partner's mechanical movements.

Malfoy let a smug smirk grace his features, glancing back at their written instructions with a studious gaze. "Of course, Potter. What can I say? I'm just _that_ talented."

A wide grin grew on the boy's scarred face, as he chuckled, "You honestly are." What was he doing? This was Malfoy! A stupid, blunt git who rudely inquired about his discolored scars on their first meeting, for crying out loud! He was no different from Weasley.

Yet even Harry could appreciate others' talents, albeit begrudgingly.

The blond Slytherin stopped for a brief second, looking over at his fellow classmate with a blank, wide-eyed look. His young face slowly broke out into a soft smile, yet he said nothing, instead turning back down at the simmering cauldron.

Was Malfoy not used to genuine praise? For all his big talk and pompous disposition, he seemed to be caught off-guard by Harry's reaffirmed compliment. That was interesting, he noted, yet he didn't make a big deal out of it.

Over time, Harry noticed that other students began to curiously glance in their direction. It was quite a show, wasn't it? The scarred boy and the Potions prodigy, talk about a duo. He almost snickered when Granger whirled her head at them, her face flushing in jealousy and determination before turning back to her own, subpar cauldron.

It also pleased him to notice Longbottom and Weasley struggle with their own potion, clumsily dropping ingredients and spilling the simmering liquid out of their shared cauldron. He bit his lip to prevent an amused grin from growing on his face when he noticed the Potions professor angrily make his way towards them, ready to reprimand the Gryffindor duo.

At least he could stay entertained in one class.

* * *

Bloody hell, what a long day.

Harry yawned deeply as he slowly made his way to his new room down the cold, irritable halls of the dungeon. Goosebumps rapidly covered his arms as the chill began to set in, thank god that his room wasn't too far now.

It was fairly late, though he wasn't truly sure what time it was. He did know, however, that he was going to crash and burn if he didn't find his soft, welcoming bed soon.

Fortunately for him, he reached the intricate, dark-cherry door within seconds. Fumbling his hand within his robe pocket, Harry pulled out a long, silver key, which he originally found inside of the vacant room when he first arrived. He slid it into the knob smoothly, turning it on its side as soon as he heard the faint click of the unlocking door. For all its emphasis on magic at Hogwarts, he was glad that some parts were still similar to the Muggles' world, a wizarding term he learned today, which was essentially what they called non-magical people around here. It sounded a bit childish, especially when serious individuals used it, but hey, what can you do?

Quickly entering the room and shutting the door softly behind him, the scarred boy took a deep breath. He let his nostrils absorb the fresh smell of a new room and the faint whiff of clean sheets. As he made his way towards his inviting bed, slipping off his robes and loafers as he did, Harry was met with an unpleasant surprise laying on his bed.

So.

Even here, he couldn't catch a break, huh?

He was truly stupid to think that Hogwarts would be any different from his orphanage.

At the end, everyone was the same, Muggle or wizard. People were cruel wherever you went.

Harry Potter didn't know how long he stared at the lone, burnt candle that lay tauntingly on his dark pillow.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Oh, jeez, poor Harry. (,: Welcome back to another chapter! Shoutout to hikari0605, thank you very much for your review! (: I've had a lot of fun writing this chapter, especially the food descriptions, haha. I hope you guys enjoyed reading it as much I enjoyed writing it! It's late here, so there might be a few mistakes, but I'd hope not. I'm open to any corrections and criticism, though. Once again, thank you for reading and I hope you all are enjoying the story!


	3. Tempus

**Wildfire**

 **Chapter 3:** Tempus

* * *

Within a few months, Hogwarts had transformed into a winter wonderland.

Rainy evenings and fiery leaves slowly dissolved into short, snowy days and crisp, cool winds that scraped children's cheeks. As Christmas steadily approached, the mood had transformed from a weary and tired one to a joyous, celebratory one. Wonder and excitement filled the air as the magical students spoke amongst themselves of their plans and wishes for the two-week vacation.

Harry, however, didn't quite share the sentiment. He could see why everyone was cheery, as after all, Christmas was a time for magic and gifts, right? Delicious feasts with your family was always a nice time, but after the Fire, he quite frankly lost all interest in the holiday. It didn't exactly help that he disliked the people he celebrated it with back at Cloverfield.

However, one thing he did look forward to was the deepest extent of winter. Truthfully, it was his favorite season. The feeling of contrast between his hot flesh and the cool, raw wind was incredibly satisfying. Though he realized that he was in the minority on his stance, one of his favorite things about the cold, frozen season was taking off his gloves and exposing his hands for minutes on end until they felt numb. It felt… comforting, strangely enough.

He was incredibly relieved to learn that he was allowed to stay at the ancient school over the break. With only a few students staying back, he could use the opportunity to roam the halls and the interesting library for hours on end. Truth be told, Harry hadn't been to the library too frequently this school year. Finding himself busy with schoolwork and his own class reading, it had been difficult to find the free time.

Despite his lack of leisure, the scarred boy was actually enjoying his classes, surprisingly enough. Even with the negative attention he received, sometimes there were kids he could socialize with, so it wasn't all that shabby. One of them, shockingly enough, was Malfoy. Even if the blond Slytherin talked a big game and stuck with his own goons after classes, Harry found himself talking and working together with the boy. He wouldn't call him a friend, but he was pleasant conversation enough, he supposed.

They made a good team too, he noted, especially when they worked together in Potions. With Malfoy's natural talents and his own efficient nature, the two Slytherins managed to succeed in any assignment given to them. They were almost a perfect foil to the duo consisting of Longbottom and Weasley, which pleased Harry greatly. He might as well stick around with Malfoy longer if it meant that he could participate in the unspoken competition against the Gryffindor boys. Nothing entertained him more than seeing Weasley struggle. If anything, it was karma.

His other classes were okay, too. Harry made an attempt to work hard and he did manage to establish some fairly good grades before the Christmas break. Unfortunately, he didn't receive any special recognition for it from his professors. Oh, well. No reaction was better than negative attention, right? Besides, he couldn't expect a lot of friendliness if he didn't offer any. Not that he acted like a pompous git in front of the teachers, as some of his fellow Slytherins did.

On the first day of Christmas break, after most of the school's inhabitants made their way home, Harry woke up late. It was incredibly refreshing to get so many hours of cozy, dreamless sleep and to take his sweet time getting ready. For once, he decided to bathe during the mornings, which was an unusual change.

With the school's public showering system, Harry found himself bathing during the nights before heading off to bed rather than in the mornings. The lavatories were packed during the crack of dawn and he didn't exactly feel comfortable stripping naked in front of others, the twisting scars that decorated half of his body made him too self-conscious. It was bad enough that his face and hand were exposed constantly, he wouldn't be able to handle changing in front of others. At least during the evenings, Harry would only find a couple of boys in the showers, rather than the large group that frolicked around before class.

Today was different, though.

With only a handful of students present at the school, he would be able to enjoy his privacy in the morning. How relaxing, really. No nervous glancing around or quick, rushed cleanings. Harry grinned at the thought with mild excitement as he pranced around his dorm room, grabbing a fresh set of clothing along with him. He decided that plain jeans and a grey sweater would suffice as attire for the day, as students weren't required to be dressed in their uniforms during the weekends or holidays. Towels and basic toiletries were readily available, too, so he didn't have to worry about that either.

He swept one last glance around his plain, homely room. Even after all these months, he _still_ hasn't made an active attempt to decorate his dorm. How was he supposed to, anyways? Sure, his stuff was thrown around the room, but he didn't have anything extra, like posters or additional lighting. The darkened chamber was still the same as it appeared on the first day he arrived, with dark-cherry furniture and sleek, green bed sheets. The only difference now was it was more… well-used? He couldn't call it messy, really, but some of his books and clothes _were_ scattered around.

Oh, well.

Shrugging, the burnt boy walked out into the freezing, cobblestone hall of the underground dungeons. The sudden contrast in temperature sent a shiver down his spine as he quickly realized that his thin pyjamas wouldn't suffice in such an environment. It was probably colder in this godforsaken hall than it was outside in the snowing weather.

Harry briskly sprinted down the hall, hoping to reach the ominous, yet reassuring common room soon. Within a minute, he arrived at the turn that lead into the large, dreamlike chamber. Out of breath, the boy leaned against a wall for comfort, his unfeeling hand grazing and grasping at the rough, bumpy texture of the grey, stone wall. His heavy breathing gathered a few strange looks towards his direction, though there weren't many students situated in the common room to begin with. Glancing up, he only noticed two, maybe three, kids. Some he didn't recognize, perhaps they were older years? The other one…

Wait, why was _he_ here? Didn't he brag about going out for Christmas?

"Malfoy?" Harry blinked, making a beeline towards the seated blond boy, who was furiously scribbling away in a short scroll. "What are you doing here?"

The sound of crisp carving on flimsy parchment immediately stopped as Malfoy glanced up at him, bored gaze and arched brow complete, like always. "What do you mean? I live in this dorm, Potter. I have full privileges of being in this common room as long as I want, or have you forgotten?" He drawled, rolling his eyes as he averted his attention back to his letter embellished with careful, noble cursive in ink.

At least, Harry assumed it was supposed to be a letter. Next to him, a blank envelope innocently lay untouched on the wooden table. Curiously, he glanced down at the formal writing, subconsciously tilting his head to the side in an attempt to decipher the letter. Though he never put too much thought into purebloods' upbringings, he supposed they were the equivalent of Muggle rich kids, right? Except with less golfing and more magic.

The pale, yellow parchment was decorated in sleek cursive, creating a string of words that did not appear to be in English. It was confirmed, though, when his viridescent eye settled on swift accents on top of some words. Harry wondered what language it was, as despite his many conversations with the pureblood heir, he never did quite find out what the mysterious boy's mother tongue was.

Harry clicked his tongue in disdain, "You know what I meant, you prat. Was that whole talk of going travelling with your family during the break all rubbish?" He placed one hand on his hip, leaving the other occupied with his bundle of clean clothing. To his surprise, a dim shade of pink blossomed on the pale boy's cheeks as he shrunk in his seat, avoiding meeting his own gaze.

"Oh, you know," Malfoy said offhandedly, staring down at his own writing. He eventually sighed and gingerly placed his quill down. Harry raised an eyebrow at the notion. Even though Malfoy enjoyed playing cool, this whole situation, whatever it was, seemed to bother him. It was honestly strange to see a more genuine, sensitive side to the blond Slytherin. "Pèr-, uh, Father," he paused, reconsidering his words. Harry nodded, patiently waiting, though he knew that the other boy wouldn't care either way. "My parents had to travel to Bordeaux for urgent business of some sort, so _I_ have to stay here for Christmas." He shrugged. "No one else in our year will know either way, as they're all away on their own breaks."

Feeling a frown grow on his own, calloused face, Harry hummed in thought. "Uh, B-Bordeaux?" He drew out the word slowly, rolling his eye upon noticing Malfoy's disgusted grimace at his botched pronunciation, "That's in France, right? Is that the language you're writing in?" He asked lamely, waving his hand in a conversational manner.

Malfoy scowled deeply, leaning down with his arms out to cover the half-finished letter away from the looming boy, "It's none of your business."

"Okay."

"And by the way, it's not only French, I am also practicing writing in German."

"Oh."

"Yes, but it's not _that_ difficult, especially for someone like me. Languages are actually very simple, I'll have you know."

"I see."

Glaring up at him with a sour expression, Malfoy muttered something under his breath. Harry didn't quite catch it, yet it suspiciously sounded like "I'd bet you do," which caused the scarred boy to raise an eyebrow quizzically, "What?"

Malfoy glanced up to meet his gaze as he spoke with a false, surprised tone. "What?" he echoed, which gained him a glowering, annoyed expression. "Anyway, Potter, if you don't mind, I would like to finish writing. In peace, that is."

Harry raised an eyebrow amusedly, "Are you saying that I'm not providing peace in any way?" Malfoy rolled his eyes in response, though a flicker of a grin flashed on his face before he glanced down at his letter comprehensively, signifying the end of their conversation.

"That's exactly what I'm saying. Goodbye, Potter."

Shrugging, the scarred boy offered him a departing wave before slowly making his way out of the dim common room. "Alright, Malfoy. See you around, then."

Harry wasn't sure, but as he turned around, he might've seen him wave back, too.

* * *

After a long shower and a peaceful breakfast, he made his way towards Hogwarts' library in a fairly good mood. By now, he knew the layout of the castle like the back of his hand. Though initially the long, ghost-infested halls all appeared exactly the same to him, within a few weeks he was able to recognize the differences easily. Different portraits, rug designs, cracks in the walls; all distinct signs in each hall. It was quite interesting, actually, and it made him curious enough to want to explore the entire castle.

As soon as he arrived at the ancient library, he made a note to come back again in the near future. Though this wasn't his first time at the studious haven, he was always baffled by its massive size. It was _enormous_. With long, grand pine shelves filled with diverse and ancient scrolls, there was plenty of educational material to go around. Manuals, newspapers and books all daintily sat, well-worn out from age. Harry imagined that even if he spent a hundred years in this place reading every day, he still wouldn't be able to go through every single source of information offered here. The library even had multiple floors, accessible through long, slim staircases and ladders. On the first floor, near the entrance, a bored bespectacled librarian sat, occasionally flicking her wand as she enchanted scattered books back to their original locations. There were plenty of long, scratched tables and comfortable seating areas scattered around on the first floor. As Harry craned his neck to glance up at the higher, open floors, he noticed that there were even more plush seats available.

With a polite nod to the librarian, who barely acknowledged him, Harry sauntered towards a curious looking podium, hidden away in the corner. On top of it lay a leather tome, bound by tightly packed woven string. It didn't resemble a published book, instead it seemed to be a binder of sorts, perhaps a collection of various texts? Carefully flipping through it, he discovered a compilation of old wizarding newspapers, starting from the Daily Prophet's most recent articles. They seemed to be magically preserved, as all of the papers looked no older than a day. He assumed that whenever a library would receive a copy, it would automatically be archived away. Or perhaps there were restoration spells? Either way, they were clearly taken care of.

Harry had to give credit to where it was due: wizards sure knew how to make newspapers interesting. With bold, crisp text and moving grayscale photographs, he was definitely enticed to read about the results of the most recent England vs Ireland Quidditch match. And he didn't even care for the sport! Sure, it was literally _the_ most popular sport in the wizarding world and it looked cool enough, but he immediately found himself perplexed by its absurd rules upon being introduced to it. The only matches he was interested in were Hogwarts' Slytherin versus Gryffindor games, even then it was only because the field was an interesting physical outlet to their rivalry.

Flipping through the immaculate pages, he found himself wondering how far back the articles went. Were there any entries from around the Wizarding War? Or better yet, the end of it? If it ended when Neville was six years old, as stated in the influential wizards' book, then that would be back in 1986, right? As he briskly turned the pages, he finally ended up on the February 1986 entry and he began making his way backwards. March, April, May… The wartime prints were dreary and empty, with some issues missing. He didn't spot anything particularly interesting until the first August entry, when his stomach dropped as his gaze landed on the large, looping photograph. It was in black and white, depicting an averagely-sized home being engulfed by roaring flames. The photograph was fairly dark, assumedly taken during the night, however the ravenous fire seemed to illuminate the whole scene.

" _Death Eaters Strike Once More! House Destroyed by Greek Fire; 3 dead."_

No way.

It couldn't be, right? It had to be a coincidence.

His breath hitched in his throat as he stared down at the open column. Eye wide and hands cold, Harry clutched the tome tightly. His chest tightened and as he swallowed hard, he had to painfully force down the bile that was slowly crawling up his throat. Nothing he could say to himself managed to comfort his anxious nerves. This couldn't be them, right? Maybe if he kept reading, then he'd find out that it was about someone else? Plenty of fires happen every day, perhaps it's just a coincidence that two fires in the wizarding world happened around the same time…

...right?

All of his meek, feeble hopes were shattered as Harry forced himself to read further ahead.

" _An attack orchestrated by the Dark Lord and his followers struck the Potters' residence late on July 31, 1986, killing three. Many of our readers may be unaware of Greek Fire, an ancient and powerful Dark Arts weapon that is incredibly rare and almost impossible to craft. Searing through everything in its path, it is unable to be contained or extinguished by any external force. The green flames are able to burn on water for hours on end until they finally die out due to overexposure. The property had been completely destroyed and reduced to ashes, with no survivors found."_

Harry had no idea how long he stood there, staring blankly at the gruesome article.

 _Why?_ Who would _do_ such a thing? For the last five years, he believed that the whole event was just an accident. It made sense. It was the most reasonable explanation at the time. Yet now, it apparently turned out that _someone_ was out to intentionally destroy him and his family. What did he ever do? What did his parents ever _do_? Clearly, the person behind this couldn't even give them an easy, painless death. No, they had to suffer in agony as they suffocated and had their flesh melt slowly before their eyes.

Memories flashed rapidly as his vision blurred. He avoided thinking about the Fire itself ever since he left the hospital, but they always crawled with their ugly claws into his dreams. Blood-curdling screaming and the scent of pungent smoke always became vivid in his mind when he slipped into the horrifying world of dreams. Now, it seemed that they would chase after him in the real, waking world, too.

According to his doctors, he had assumedly fallen into a coma shortly after receiving his injuries. In a brave, selfless attempt to save his life, his mother rushed him out of the burning building and blocked the majority of the charring flames, perishing in the process.

Harry hated thinking about her. Her joyous smile when she would see him first thing in the morning, her powerful and hearty laughter that would echo in the living room, her own genuine excitement when he would tell her about his newest drawing or his day. He missed her _so much_.

And now, she was gone.

Suddenly, a soft, elderly voice broke the empty, grieving boy out of his trance.

"It was one of the most horrendous events in the last century… Truly, a dreadful tragedy. No person deserves to go through such pain."

Harry turned around to face the speaker, his face blank. Behind him, with a deep, wise frown and long flowing robes, stood Albus Dumbledore himself. The Headmaster was glancing down at him with a sympathetic, thoughtful expression, his milky gaze lingering on the boy's prominent scars for a moment. The jade-eyed youth had to restrain his growing scowl with all his strength out of empty respect.

"Oh, Headmaster. I apologize, I didn't see you there, sir." Harry bowed his head politely, self-consciously turning his scarred cheek away.

A frown flashed on the old wizard's withered face, though it was gone as soon as it came, "That's quite alright, Mr. Potter. I see you have finally uncovered the deeper nature of the fire; the Dark Lord had always been ruthless with his victims."

Harry grimaced, quickly glancing back at the open, taunting newspaper. "Why my parents, though, sir? Were they some sort of rebels to his regime, or something?" He couldn't keep the bitter tone out of his voice, instead shifting his attention down to his dark, plain loafers.

"That's certainly a way to put it. James and Lily Potter had always been very morally sound and heavily involved in the war against the Death Eaters, until the last few months before their untimely deaths." The wise mage mused, following the boy's gaze towards the open Daily Prophet column. "They were always active and courageous, even during their years at Hogwarts."

Blinking up at the old Headmaster with a thoughtful expression, Harry experienced a grim feeling of epiphany for a brief moment before he slowly began to speak again. "Sir, here, in the article, it says that three were found dead. Does… does the wizarding world even _know_ that I'm alive?"

Dumbledore paused, considering his words. After a long, silent moment, he began to speak once more, though his tone was quieter and more gentle. Harry hated that tone, it was the exact same tone that pitying adults always used around him. Doctors, strangers and now teachers. It seems like he would never escape it. "One thing you have to understand, Mr. Potter, is that at the time, the Death Eaters had immense control of the government, media and in general, the entirety of the wizarding world. In truth, you were deemed missing."

The headmaster paused, glancing down at the boy as assessed his reaction. When he noticed no visible signs of rising anger or doom, he continued, "However, tell me, my dear boy, how _would_ the Dark Lord react if he discovered that his attack was not fully successful and that you were alive, yet nowhere to be found? There would be a panic and a massive bounty would be placed on your head. Every single British wizard would keep a lookout for you. So, instead, as the Muggle authorities arrived before anyone else could find you, it was safer to simply state you were dead."

Harry's mouth felt dry as he strained his throat to speak. It made sense, strategically. And he _was_ alive and had a fairly average, safe life, despite everything that happened. It still hurt, though, to be completely _erased_ from the eye of the wizarding world, to be deemed gone. Dead. It was going to be a nasty shock when word leaks out that he survived. His shoulders dropped as his voice fell into a murmur, "I… I guess…"

The bearded wizard nodded, glancing aside towards the peaceful entrance of the library as he spoke, "Additionally, having you be raised in a modernized Muggle world with your mother's relatives was deemed to be the safest possibility at the time."

Harry stopped, raising his eyebrow in surprise when the words registered in his mind. What? No way. Wait, did this geezer really just- "My mother's... relatives?" The raven-haired boy echoed, wearily narrowing his gaze, "Do you mean the Dursleys, sir? Because, I, uh, wasn't. Raised by them, I mean, sir."

Sensing his confusion, Dumbledore glanced back down at the young Slytherin, his eyebrows raised in mild surprise, "You were not? That... is quite a shock. Were you not dropped off at their home after your recovery?"

Harry nodded hesitantly, taking a step back. He couldn't believe this. All this empty talk about keeping him safe and hidden from the wizarding world, yet this old man just dropped him once and then never bothered to check up on the damage. Bloody hell. "I was, sir. The hospital I stayed at contacted them to pick me up after I was healed. But I only stayed at their place for like, what, a day? Sir, they kicked me out and dropped me off at an orphanage."

Dumbledore paused, his tone hesitant as he began speaking again after a minute. Wow, this _really_ was a surprise to him, huh? "...which orphanage exactly, Mr. Potter?" He asked slowly, studying the burnt boy through the frames of his half-moon shaped glasses.

"Uh, Cloverfield, sir. It's a small Muggle orphanage in uptown London." Harry said offhandedly, his tone slowly faltering when he noticed Dumbledore's grave expression.

The old man looked like he suddenly aged twenty more years, if that was even possible, considering his withered appearance. "I see… Well, that's quite alright, Mr. Potter. At least you're healthy and here now, yes?" He offered a comforting smile, to which Harry responded with one of his own, albeit hesitantly.

They stood in peaceful silence for a few moments, before Harry raised his head up at the Headmaster with a hopeful glance, "May I ask a question, sir?" His voice trailed off as he nervously clasped his hands together.

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows as he chuckled, his eyes twinkling in mild amusement, "Hm? You just did, Mr. Potter," he paused, before continuing, "However, you may ask another one. What would you like to know, exactly?"

Harry felt his face heat up in embarrassment as he shrunk under the man's pointed bright gaze. "Ah, I wanted to know what houses my parents were in when they attended Hogwarts, sir…" his voice trailed off as he anxiously watched the Headmaster's face shift into one of thought and reminiscing.

"Hmm… Oh, I remember their sortings as if they had been yesterday, quite frankly. Your father, James, was placed in Gryffindor before the hat even reached his head." He mused, clearly lost in the memory. "Your mother, on the other hand…" His voice trailed off, resulting in the Slytherin looking up at him with a wide-eyed expression filled with anticipation. "Lily Evans' sorting was perhaps the most interesting one that night. It was curious, really. She had been hatstalled for over seven minutes, if I recall correctly. However, she was placed in Gryffindor as well, at the end."

Harry's stomach dropped, his mood somewhat deflated. He found himself dimly wondering how his parents and especially, his mother, would react to his placement if they were still alive to witness it. Would they be disappointed? As brave, loving ex-Gryffindors, would they have been disgusted to have a dreary, sardonic Slytherin as a son? Or would they be proud of him either way, accepting their sullen, scarred son as who he was? His mother surely wouldn't care either way, hopefully. She used to look at him like he was the center of her universe, there wasn't a single chance that her opinion of her firstborn and only son would diminish just because he was placed in a stupid house meant for organization at a magical school… right? Harry preferred not to think too much about the topic, as he only felt further disheartened by the thought.

Swallowing dryly, he forced himself to look the old, wise man in the eye. Forest green met pale blue as he stared at Dumbledore with desperation and weak hope. "Sir... Do you, by any chance, know what was the other house considered for her, if she had been hatstalled for so long?"

Dumbledore smiled, though he knew it wasn't a genuine one. It appeared tightly forced and it didn't quite meet his eyes, as if the Headmaster either didn't approve of her alternate possibility or Harry's consistent questions. Probably both, Harry inwardly frowned. At least the feeling was mutual.

"Ah, yes. In fact, I do, Mr. Potter. Her other possible choice was Slytherin. I would not have been surprised if she had been placed there, as Miss Evans had always been very cunning and determined, after all." He spoke lightly, yet Harry caught on to him. Instead of confronting him on the matter, the young boy simply smiled in satisfaction.

He was _so_ relieved. In a way, he felt closer to her. When he was younger, before he received his scars, adults around him would typically compare him to be a physical replica of his father. Harry never felt especially close to him, though, instead preferring the company of his mum. It didn't help that he spent more time with her as his dad was always away from home. Knowing that he shared some of the same traits as his late mother brought him great joy.

Harry reached up to sheepishly rub the back of his leathery neck with his unfeeling hand, before beginning to speak once more, "I see. Thank you, sir. I apologize for my questions, this was just really important to me…" He politely bowed his head to the respected Headmaster once more. From what he noticed, he could never go wrong with being polite to old geriatrics and adults. After all, who would they trust in a given situation, a rude, troublemaking boy or a polite, well-spoken lad? Even if he didn't care about half of the adults he spoke to, he could easily get away with most things just through manners.

With a thoughtful nod, the Headmaster smiled down at him, before glancing back at the library's entrance. "You're very welcome, my boy. Unfortunately, I need to take my leave now, I had only come to the library for a chat with our dear old librarian," He spoke, an amused smile playing on his lips before it faltered, "though it was very pleasant conversing with you. Good luck with your year, Mr. Potter." Waving him one last farewell, Dumbledore strode off to speak with the dull librarian, who immediately snapped to attention when she noticed him approaching. Harry let out a sigh, turning back to softly shut the depressing book.

He needed a distraction. He wasn't going to let himself sulk on the first day of Christmas break, not like this. It was bad enough that he may find himself struggling to sleep once more. Grave thoughts and repressed memories flooded his mind as he found himself delving deeper into the past. The stenches of smoke, burning flesh and medical disinfectant all seemed to come alive and fill his nostrils, though as he looked around, all he found was the same old library.

As soon as he heard whispering around him, he snapped his head towards the direction of the sound. Near him, two older students fell quiet when he turned his attention on them. He couldn't do this here, not now.

Instead, Harry decided to check out some lighter reading material. There were plenty of texts here, he was bound to find _something_ that could cheer him up. Striding towards a long, secluded aisle, he kept his eye out for any interesting titles. Endless tomes and books that reeked of age and sour withered pages all littered the gigantic shelves. The topics also seemed to be infinite, from ancient runes, to potions, to divination. Truly, Hogwarts' library was the pinnacle of magical knowledge, as when he glanced up, Harry realized that this particular shelf was one of many hundreds just like it.

In the end, he decided to grab a fairly polished-looking book on Defense Against the Dark Arts. It was an interesting enough subject, but at this point it was ruined for him by that rat Quirrell and his atrocious teaching. Harry had no idea what was going through Dumbledore's mind when he hired that stuttering dolt. Personally, he thought the old man was drunk at the time, because he can't see how it would be a good idea any other way. Supposedly, Quirrell was a fairly knowledgeable scholar in his time, but there weren't any remnants of those glory days left in his teaching.

Maybe he was being too hard on him? He was nice enough, he supposed. Perhaps the poor fellow just couldn't help it if he was a cruddy professor.

Harry didn't actually know why he disliked the man so much. There were plenty of bad teachers at Hogwarts, but none of them rubbed him the wrong way like his Defense of the Dark Arts professor did. He wouldn't be surprised if the man was some sort of convicted criminal or had a corpse in his basement, in all honesty. He seemed like the type.

His musings were soon interrupted by loud guffawing from the aisle behind him. Glancing up, he made an attempt to decipher the mysterious voices. Two boys spoke, one sounded exasperated while the other had a suspiciously familiar nasally tone. Wait a second.

"Ron," Longbottom quietly spoke, sounding tired and almost annoyed. Harry leaned close to the shelf in an attempt to eavesdrop on the two Gryffindors' conversation. "Please, can you take this seriously for five minutes? We've already been here for an hour and found _nothing_."

"Alright, alright," Weasley said heavily after his own laughter died out, "Fine. Maybe we should come back tomorrow, mate. Look, if Hermione couldn't find any information on this Nicholas Flamel chap, what makes you think we will?"

"Two heads are stronger than one. Plus, she said it herself, she mostly skimmed through the library right before the break, she might've easily missed something. How hard can it be, anyways? He was famous, wasn't he?"

"Whatever. Oh, yeah, by the way, did you get started on that bloody Potions essay that's due after the break?"

"I did. I don't want to leave it on the last day, honestly. Professor Snape would notice if I did. I'm already doing horrid in Potions, too."

"Me, too, mate. Me, too. I'm gonna try to leech the essay off Hermione, you think she'll give in?"

"Uh… I don't know, Ron. It's really risky, either way."

"Oh, well. I don't really care."

Bloody hell. Harry tuned out of their conversation before he could receive any more brain damage, instead sighing silently. He discreetly made his way to sign out his old book, hoping that the duo wouldn't realize that he had been listening to their conversation. Despite his initial excitement for the Christmas break, his joyous spirit quickly died out because of this little trip.

As he kept walking, a nagging in his gut pressured him to go back. Though he had no desire to listen to Weasley speak, his interest had been sparked when they spoke of that famous wizard, Flamel. Harry had never heard of him and none of his many school books had ever mentioned the name. Well, he _had_ always been curious of the unknown. Biting his bottom lip, he considered his choices, before deciding that really, what was the worst that could happen? He had plenty of time and he might even find some books on other interesting topics, anyways.

Turning around, Harry shuffled back towards the many shelves of Hogwarts' library.

* * *

The year seemed to go pretty smoothly from there on.

Seasons came and went, and Harry got to appreciate the ancient beauty of the castle as its appearance, too, shifted. Pearly, fleecy snow and harsh icicles that decorated the exterior castle walls soon melted to reveal the first signs of spring within a few months. The cold, however, was more resilient, as even during the greening April was it still freezing. It was particularly strange, as the British Isles weren't known for their harsh weather, instead preferring mild temperatures all year round. Perhaps the mountainous landscape of the area was responsible? He didn't really know, or care, for that matter.

Despite some of the mocking comments and rude stares Harry received, the school year was still fairly enjoyable. He was pretty proud of his grades, especially in Potions and Defense of the Dark Arts. The latter class was fairly straightforward, though he learned practically nothing in the last year, thanks to Quirrell. Potions, however, was a whole other can of worms.

Sticking close to Malfoy while also doing additional reading after classes proved to be his best decisions yet. While he still struggled in class sometimes, the subject itself was interesting enough to keep him determined to keep working hard. It proved to have additional merits, too, as he soon talked to Malfoy enough that he may even consider him to be a friend, in a strange way. They definitely weren't acquaintances anymore, as he knew too much about the posh blond.

They were both very similar, despite his initial impression of the other boy. They both shared the same sense of humor and both strived hard in their classes. It was… nice. Harry never really had friends, per se. Sure, there were kids in the neighborhood that he used to play with before the Fire, but they were all too young to really understand the concept of an actual friendship.

Now, there was an actual person he could consider his friend. The word sounded so strange to his ears. He tried not to think too much about it, as he wasn't even sure that Malfoy himself considered him to be one. If he did, well, then the pureblood was too proud to admit it aloud.

If he managed to, though, an added plus of befriending the Malfoy heir would be social standing. By being close enough to the young blond boy, maybe others would look up at him instead of down.

But he tried not to amuse himself too much with empty ideals.

"Potter? Did you even hear what I said?"

His train of thought was interrupted by Malfoy's snarky drawl. Blinking blankly, Harry glanced over to his left to see the pompous boy staring at him with an annoyed, questioning scowl.

"Sorry, Malfoy. I'm out of it…" He frowned, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. His Potions partner simply rolled his eyes, waving him off.

"Whatever. I said that you will cover peeling and chopping of the elderwood roots, so you better get started soon. It says here that they have to be added seven minutes after the initial boiling point, otherwise the whole brew will be ruined." He spoke quickly, his stormy-grey eyes darting between the rough pages of the withered textbook.

Though it took the burnt boy a few months to get used to the prodigy's brisk, knowledgeable manner of speech, by now he understood him perfectly. Simply nodding, he grabbed a hold of a serrated blade that was laid out on their desk and began to work. The roots, pale-cream colored and calloused, were difficult to shred and break down. He managed to accomplish the task anyway, thanks to months of practice and the saw-like edge of the knife.

Together, they worked in silence for a while before finally Malfoy spoke, in a strangely conversational tone, "So, Potter, are you going to the Quidditch match tomorrow?" The blond avoided looking at him, instead focusing his gaze down as he mechanically crushed organic snake fangs with the flat of his own blade.

Hesitantly, Harry lowered his own blade as he glanced over at the other boy suspiciously, his eyebrow furrowed. He returned to his own pace at work within seconds, however, when he realized with relief that he was at his last bundle of roots. "I don't think so," he half-lied, "Why, are you?"

"Of course I am. It's the final Slytherin vs Gryffindor match of the season. Zabini, Pansy Parkinson and I are all going to see the game together."

"Oh. That's, uh, nice."

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

Huffing dramatically, Malfoy rolled his eyes in annoyance, "Honestly, Potter, do I have to spell every single thing out to you? I am asking if you want to join us."

Harry blinked, his eye wide. Was this a dream? He wouldn't be surprised, the whole day had been fairly strange, anyways. As they sat in silence though, with Malfoy's silver eyes staring deeply at him while awaiting his response, he realized that this was real.

"Er... Sure, I guess. I'll tag along."

Seemingly pleased with his answer, Malfoy glanced over at their scalding, dark cauldron with a conceited expression planted on his pale face. "Good. It'll be fun, Weasley already tried to pick a fight with us about who would win. When Slytherin wins, you'd best believe I'll rub that glorious victory into his ugly, freckled face."

Harry snorted in amusement, picking up the chopping board covered in small chunks of elderwood and turning it over towards the steaming concoction. "I'm glad you're confident that they'll win."

Huffing, Malfoy waved his right hand dramatically, "Of course I am. I have no worries about the game. Gryffindor's team is dreadful, watching them play has to be a form of torture somewhere."

Managing an amused smile, the dark-haired boy brushed his hand swiftly over the wooden chopping board, letting the prepared roots scatter into the pale green, boiling liquid that swivelled in the iron cauldron. It was a fairly awkward process, as he gingerly leaned over from afar to avoid the heat rising into his face, but after a few moments, he was thankfully done.

Finally, Harry shrugged, his right hand reaching up to readjust his plain, dark frames. "Hey, I don't doubt it, Malfoy. I've only seen maybe a game or two, so I think you may be right on that one."

With a smug smile that tugged on his porcelain face, Malfoy let out a dramatic, clearly over-exaggerated sigh. "I am always right, Potter." He said, letting the powdery snake fangs neatly sprinkle into their boiling brew, which seemed to graduate into a darker shade upon contact with the organic material.

Harry tore his gaze off their potion to avert his attention towards Malfoy, a grin playing on his features. "Except when you're not, yes?" His voice dropped to a whisper when his ears caught onto the sharp footsteps of their bad-tempered professor approaching their way. For a heartbeat, his own stomach dropped in fear, though his good mood quickly returned when he realized that incoming storm wasn't for him and Malfoy. He was never sure why he worried, really. The Slytherin duo never did seem to receive one of the Potion Master's infamous talk-downs, not that he complained.

Malfoy, too, seemed to get the message, as he also quickly lowered his volume. Harry didn't particularly know why, as it was clear as day that Malfoy was easily Snape's favorite student. He supposed that this was just another part of his perfect-student image. "I hope you know I can still un-invite you." The blond hissed, quickly averting his silver gaze down to their bubbling potion.

Raising a dark, unkempt eyebrow, Harry felt a teasing grin tug on his cheeks, "But will you?" He asked quietly, staring at his classmate's studious form. He didn't really know when this happened, this joyous, light-hearted mood that he frequently felt around the pompous boy. Not that he complained, after all the revelations he gathered this past school year, he could use some fun.

Turning a page smoothly, the burnt boy could've sworn he saw a small smile on play on the pureblood's normally rigid features. "I suppose not."

* * *

The sharp sound of goblets clinking radiated through their immediate area of the table. Laughter, chatter and an overall celebratory mood intoxicatingly flooded the stupendous hall, though by this point in time, all of the First-years were used to its lavish nature. Of course, after daily dining in the Great Hall every day for over ten months, supposedly anyone can adjust to it. As the room bathed in the bright light of the fantastical floating candles, the darker tint of the Slytherin banners that hung near every marble column seemed to make the hall akin to their very own dreary common room. While some of the other houses' students, despite their own celebrations of the end of the year and by extension, exams, looked fairly sullen and bored. It wasn't surprising, for this was Slytherin's eighth win in a row.

With a peaceful smile on his discolored face, Harry brought the lustrous goblet to his lips, taking a long sip as he did. It was plain, refreshing water, but even it seemed to taste sweet like the atmosphere around him. In front of him, various dinner dishes ranging from cold, raw salads to steaming, supple soups lay smoothly on the hard wooden table, ready to be dived in on. Students around him were all in their own conversations, buzzing with excitement and thoughtful planning for their summers ahead. Considering his summer would most likely be fairly plain, Harry decided to discreetly tune into some of the chatter, straining his ears to hear a pair of supposedly Seventh-years' exchange to his right.

"I am certainly thankful that even in my last year here, Slytherin wins once more." A brown-haired boy spoke, brushing loose, copper strands back with his hand as he glanced to the pretty girl to his right.

Harry glanced behind him, attempting to identify the girl. Unfortunately, this was the first (and last) time he had or would ever met the two students. She sighed softly, taking a sip of her own goblet as she spoke. "Tell me about it. What are your plans now?"

The guy shrugged, fiddling with his silver fork as he glanced down. "Traveling, I suppose. I plan to visit some of mainland Europe, perhaps make some magical purchases in other southern cities. What about you?"

"Ah, actually, I've heard some fairly well-paying Auror positions have opened up in Liverpool. It's very likely I'll apply there."

Whistling, the male teenager leaned his scruffy chin into his hand. "Wow, look at you go. Do send me letters when you settle in, will you?"

"You expect me to send you letters when you're in bloody Barcelona?" She squawked, her dark eyebrow raising high in comprehension, yet an amused smile played on her lips.

"I was thinking Copenhagen, really."

Harry finally glanced away, his smile from earlier growing slightly. He could almost say the whole exchange was… cute. He found himself vaguely wondering whether or not he would ever travel, though with his financial and social situation, he didn't imagine he would at any time in the next twenty years. It was unfortunate, but he had other matters to worry about. Oh, well.

To his left, more familiar faces sat, the flock of soon-to-be Second-years were all deep in an intense conversation. Malfoy, who was playing the role of ringleader, as usual, was giving a dramatic retelling of his most recent confrontation with Weasley and Longbottom, much to the skepticism of his fellow peers. It was all for show, they knew, and he was telling the story in such an amusing manner that it would be hard to assume that the pureblood heir didn't exaggerate a story even a tiny bit.

Pansy rolled her dark eyes, raising her eyebrows in mild boredom. "Sorry, Draco, I didn't quite catch you. Did you or did you not call Weasley a 'filthy blood traitor'?" Her sarcastic question gathered a few laughs from their group and even Harry felt a quiet chuckle escape his throat as he peered from his cup.

Huffing, the blond boy sneered at her as he crossed in arms. "If you have a problem with how I am telling my story, then you are more than welcome to take over, _Pansy_."

She shrugged, glancing over at Blaise Zabini to her right with an amused, half-lidded smile. "No, no. You are more than welcome to continue, we're all listening." More laughter ensued from the students as Malfoy simply rolled his stormy eyes, whirling his head to shift his attention towards Harry, who had been steadily listening with mild mirth.

"Do you see what I have to deal with, Potter?"

Harry raised his eyebrow, craning his neck in an attempt to get a better look on the First-years situated to Malfoy's left. "I'm seeing, alright."

The two Slytherins sat in silence for a few minutes, occasionally exchanging knowing glances and focusing their attention down towards their own half-filled plates. After a while, the awkward tension became unbearable, so in a lame attempt, Harry struck up a new conversational topic. "So, tell me, Malfoy, how do you feel? About Slytherin's victory, that is."

The blond boy snorted, a conceited expression flourishing on his previously bored features. "Unsurprised, of course. I imagine that we won by a landslide, considering all of the buffoons that frolick in the other houses, especially in Gryffindor. Quote me on this, Potter, those gits will be in fourth place."

Nodding, Harry's right hand subconsciously reached up to brush through his locks that wildly fell over his scars, resettling the dark mane in the process. "Yeah, okay, don't mind if I do. I'm still surprised, though. Towards the end of the year, I started worrying a bit." He spoke, turning around to glance at all the other students situated in their respective tables.

Malfoy, too, turned around, following the raven-haired youth's own viridescent gaze around the opulent hall. "What did I say to you, Potter? Slytherin always wins, you worried for nothing." He spoke in a pompous manner, though Harry still caught on to his mildly teasing tone. Smiling, he looked back to meet his, hopefully, friend's bright grey eyes.

"I don't actually think you've ever outright said that." He grinned, ignoring the struggle of the wavering tugging on his calloused cheek.

Raising a dainty, blond eyebrow, the other Slytherin simply shrugged, "Perhaps you have a rubbish memory, then. Not my fault."

Before Harry could reply with a snarky response, however, the gleeful chatter quickly died out when the grandiose, oak double doors opened to reveal Albus Dumbledore. The archmage strode towards the Long Table, sweeping a fond gaze over the many students sitting down, who all either respectfully shifted their attention towards him or turned around in order to do so.

"Another year has flown past and here we are, back again. I thank you all for such a wonderful year and I do hope all of you share the same sentiment. Now, before we proceed with the evening, I would like to make a few announcements."

Near him, Pansy coughed, "Unfortunately for the rest of us, Slytherin has won once again." She whispered in a poor impersonation of the Headmaster, gathering a few chuckles and amused smiles from her peers. Thankfully, he didn't hear her, otherwise that would truly be forlorn.

With a flourish of his own twisted wand, a short scroll appeared in Dumbledore's withered hands with a faint pop. Peering down at it with a calculating gaze over his half-moon shaped frames, he cleared his throat. "Now, for the House Cup ranking. The points go as follows,"

Harry quickly turned his head back to glance at his peers, who either met his own gaze or stared at the scroll hungrily. Though they knew already won, it was safe to say every Slytherin was curious how vast the point difference really was.

"In fourth place, we have Gryffindor, with three hundred and twelve points."

A sharp jab in his ribs made Harry roll his healthy eye knowingly as he heard Malfoy's smug, quiet snort from his left side.

"In third place, Hufflepuff, with three hundred and fifty-two. Ravenclaw stands in second place, with a score of four hundred and twenty six. Finally, last, but not least," Dumbledore paused for a brief moment, a ghost of a smile tugging on his wrinkled face.

"Not least... Yeah, right." Harry whispered, to which Malfoy quietly snickered at, much to his pleasure. It didn't seem like anyone else heard him, though. Instead, he leaned his left cheek into hand, watching the Headmaster with a mild curiosity.

"Slytherin is in first place, with four hundred and seventy-two points."

A thunderous roar of clapping and cheering exploded from their table, with several of the students offering high-fives and fist bumps to each other. Beside him, Malfoy slammed his goblet on the smooth table, letting the sharp sound pierce through their side of the hall.

Over the booming, Harry heard a dark-haired Seventh-year laugh, winking at the young group concentrated at their side. "Eight years in a row, lads! Don't disappoint us when we're gone, First-years!"

Pansy smirked, waving off the teenager in good humor. "We'll make it ten years!"

"Make it fifteen, while you're at it!"

Their short celebration was put to a sudden end, much to the relief of the rest of the students, when Dumbledore raised his hand. Once again, obedient silence washed over them as they turned to hear what he had to say.

"Yes, yes. Congratulations, Slytherin, once again." The old man exhaled silently, almost in a tired manner. However, the entire process seemed to take less than a second, leaving Harry to believe it might've been part of his imagination, but he knew better. "However, there will be some adjusting to the rankings in light of recent events."

Harry's stomach dropped ever so slightly as when he quickly glanced back, he noticed some of his peers' smiles fading.

"I will be awarding some last-minute points thanks to some of our students'," Dumbledore glanced over at the Gryffindor table, his smile slowly growing on his face, "bravery and determination in the face of adversity."

Bloody hell. This guy _really_ disliked them, huh? The scarred boy's gaze traveled towards the Long Table, where his head of house sat. Snape, too, seemed to share his students' sense of foreboding, as he watched the Headmaster's form with a wary look from his seat.

After a moment, Dumbledore spoke once more while letting the grainy scroll in his hand disappear into thin air. "Firstly, I would like to award Mr. Ronald Weasley fifty points," he ignored many of the students, Slytherin or otherwise, and their gawks of indignation. "for participating and winning in the most spectacular chess game that Hogwarts has seen in years."

Harry found himself glaring at Weasley from his seat, his annoyance slowly growing by the minute.

"Secondly, to Miss Hermione Granger, who demonstrated well-composed logic in the face of danger, fifty points."

Pansy leaned over from across the table, poking Malfoy's hand harshly. "We're going to lose because this goat can't handle having his precious Gryffindors not win the cup." She hissed, her obsidian eyes darting between him and Harry.

The latter gave her a frown, hesitantly turning his scarred cheek away from the fuming girl. "We might still win, don't count us out yet." He whispered, though he didn't exactly believe his own words. "What are they getting these points for, anyways? Those seem like vague excuses."

Malfoy, too, seemed worried. His grey eyes narrowed as he leaned over to whisper. "I don't know. I heard something occured last night with the Philosopher's Stone."

Frowning, Harry inquired, "What on earth is that?" However, he was met with silence as the other Slytherins turned their attention ahead towards Dumbledore, who soon began to speak once more.

"Finally, to Mr Neville Longbottom, for outstanding courage and honor, fifty points."

Zabini, who sat next to Pansy, leaned over to them. "It doesn't add up. We still win, they're ten points behind us."

The group seemed to collectively sigh in relief, with some students from farther down the table tiredly covering their faces with their hands.

Harry glanced down at his clammy hands, suddenly wondering why he was so nervous about all this. Did he really get _that_ invested into this whole house-pride thing? He didn't expect himself to care much about the cup, really, yet here he was now.

Up ahead, a frown flickered on Dumbledore's face for a brief second, though he returned to his thoughtful nature quickly after. "Now, with the recent additions, it seems that Gryffindor has placed second, with four hundred and sixty-two points. Thus, Slytherin remains the winner for another year."

Their table exploded in cheering once more, though this time it was more powerful and felt more rewarding. The students outside of their house, however, were less than pleased, as Harry noticed some of them even groaned and scowled upon hearing the announcement. Turning around to his left, the scarred boy was amused to see a vain sneer planted on Malfoy's pale face. The pureblood muttered something under his breath, but he didn't quite catch it.

Pansy laughed haughtily, harshly clapping Zabini on the back, who nearly jumped in startlement. "Not even his forced rigging can save those idiots. It's that simple, boys."

On impulse, Harry found himself raising his goblet, his irregularly-scarred hand gripping tightly on the silver handle. Though his housemates nearby didn't initially notice him, he did note that Malfoy glanced up at him, eyebrows raised in mild surprise. "To Slytherin," Harry spoke, his voice slowly growing more confident despite the fixation of his peers' stares on him and his scars. "May we win for many more years to come."

His few words, however, were met with a great cheer. For once, even if it was for a few seconds, Harry felt happy being the center of attention.

* * *

 **Author's Note** : So ends first year! Sorry for the fairly long wait, I was hit with classes and a pretty nasty writer's block for a while. (: Hopefully, the next chapter won't take that long, haha. By the way, thank you so much for the reviews and suggestions, I really appreciate them and will definitely keep them in mind!

Once again, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and thank you for reading, as always.


	4. Venom in Veins

**Wildfire**

 **Chapter 4:** Venom in Veins

* * *

There was nothing quite exciting like traveling somewhere.

The anticipation of the destination, the hours of preparation and packing, and the actual journey was incredibly entertaining to Harry Potter, though he wasn't fully sure why. His body was riddled with excitement and as the summer slowly melted away once more, so did his tired, bored mood.

Shortly after his return to Cloverfield, he was unsurprised with what he found, yet still somehow disappointed that not much has changed. Same old leaky faucets, same old furniture, same old people. For the most part, at least. Some of the older orphans had left, he had noted, as they finally hit the age of majority or had been adopted. Either option seemed fully plausible, because the last set of kids didn't have any delinquents like it quite did in the past.

Soon, he found himself boarded on Hogwarts Express once more, but at least this time, he had some company. Turning his head towards the clear window on his right, Harry found himself only vaguely comprehending the loud, idle conversation of his classmates, Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson. He had found himself sticking close to them, especially the former, even during the first year. While he considered Malfoy to be a friend, he supposed, Harry didn't particularly feel anything about the dark-haired pureblood. She was definitely funny, in her own brash, rude way, but they never had a personal, one-on-one conversation. The only reason they even sat close or interacted within a group was due to their own connections with Malfoy.

Supposedly, she had known the blond since birth. As two purebloods descending from ancient, wealthy wizarding families, it only made sense that they had a lot of history. Harry sometimes wondered if they even liked each other, as he couldn't possibly imagine befriending someone just because his parents forced him to. Listening to their conversations, though, made him realize that perhaps they didn't feel the same way. They spoke like… best friends? With similar habits and interests, the duo were almost like two peas in a pod.

Contrastingly and unsurprisingly, Harry was at most, very casual friends with the young Malfoy heir. Sometimes, when he would lay awake at night, unable to sleep, his mind would be riddled with doubts that were deep-rooted in his gut. _Were_ they even friends? They referred to each other by surnames and beyond their one personal conversation during last Christmas, Harry didn't know too much about Malfoy. Well, that wasn't exactly true. He knew Malfoy; child prodigy, star student of Slytherin, heir to the ancient and powerful Malfoys that had deep roots in both France and Britain. But he didn't know Draco. He didn't know his favorite color or food, his desires and dreams, birthday or home life. Did Malfoy even _consider_ him to be a friend, anyways?

Though the one single question opened a whole other can of worms of worries and self-conscious doubts, it all was comforted by one fact.

Malfoy seeked him out. He invited the scarred boy to work together, sit together and go to amateur, light-hearted Quidditch games together.

Harry had been an outcast for so many years. It would be incredibly easy for anyone to drop him, he imagined. Like an old, homemade toy, when something new and shiny came to the block, he could easily be replaced. Everyone was replaceable; that was one lesson that had stuck with him ever since he first stepped within the doors of Cloverfield Orphanage. But for once, he was getting seeked out. Someone genuinely wanted to talk to him, to interact with him and do things with him. It was… nice, to say the least. A warm fuzzy feeling settled deep in his stomach, fluttering slightly as if it was a coven of gentle, springtime butterflies.

His musings were interrupted by a sudden change in Malfoy's tone, which had quickly transformed into an almost excited, haughty one. "So, guess who I had encountered over the summer?"

From across the seat, Pansy nodded for him to go on, crossing her arms close to her chest. "Do tell."

"Our favorite hero, Neville Longbottom, along with those bloody Weasleys and that filthy mudblood, Granger. It seems that a new ginger spawn will be entering the school this year. Listen to this: _Ginny Weasley_."

A snort, soon followed by a howl of laughter, filled the small compartment for several seconds. Even Harry, who had mostly tuned out of the two Slytherins' cruel and arrogant conversation, cracked a reserved, self-contained smile. It almost seemed that Malfoy hated the so-called 'Golden Trio', as they were famously referred, more than Harry himself. Somehow, that, along with Malfoy's natural ability to blow anything out of proportion, made the whole situation much more amusing.

One term did catch his attention though, the word that Malfoy spat out: mudblood. It wasn't one that Harry heard very frequently, though sometimes one of the Slytherins would say it aloud. Another interesting notion he noticed was that it was only purebloods who used the term. With the way they said it and how their faces scrunched in disgust, raising their noses slightly in the air as they did, he knew that it was most likely no good.

Swallowing dryly, Harry wondered how he would attempt interrupt their conversation. Should he wait for the term to be brought up again? Or wait for a silence to naturally fall upon them in-between topics? Thankfully, before he had to make a decision himself, he was forcibly introduced to the conversation as the two Slytherins glanced over at him.

"What's wrong, Potter? Weasel got your tongue?" Pansy's voice raised into another octave, if that was even possible, as her lips curled up into a cruel, conceited sneer. Her dark eyes landed on his scars that littered his face and neck, though she was unfazed by the jarring flesh after a year of constant exposure to it. Malfoy glanced over at her for a heartbeat, his sterling eyes narrowing slightly, though it quickly passed when he turned to give Harry a questioning look, coldly assessing his reaction.

Harry raised his eyebrow, glancing around the compartment in an attempt to avoid the maliciously-glinting eyes that pierced into his soul. Instinctively, his hand raised up to cover his scars, like he always did. At the very least, he noticed that he had been doing that less often, so that was always an improvement. "Uh, no, I'd hope not. I was just confused, I guess. This is gonna sound stupid, but what exactly does 'mudblood' mean?" He faltered, waving his hand lamely as the stares of his classmates deepened.

Once he finished, Pansy Parkinson snorted with laughter, glancing over at Malfoy with a smug amusement, gesturing him to take over. Malfoy, for once, seemed to be caught off-guard, as if he didn't expect having to actually explain a strictly magical term to one of his peers. The shift in mood only lasted a few seconds, though, before he simply rolled his bright eyes, waving his hand dramatically as he spoke, "Mudbloods, Potter, are the scum of the earth." He smiled smugly, as if that explained it all. Pansy vigorously nodded along in full-hearted agreement.

"Yeah. Uh, I figured. From how you guys were using it, I mean. But _what_ are they?"

Pansy quickly latched onto the topic as she hissed out, "Filthy, impure, false wizards and witches. Those who are born to Muggles and have _zero_ connection to magic in their veins, but get a letter and come prancing in to Hogwarts as if they own the bloody place."

"Oh, so, Muggleborns?"

"Sure. That's the 'nice' way to call them. They deserve no respect, though. Salazar Slytherin himself thought the same, he tried to keep the school clean from those bastards, but those other foolish founders thought he was 'incorrect'. Now look where we are."

Harry blinked, his head tilting curiously. That was surprising, as despite his many readings about the wizarding world with its deep lore and history, he never did research too much about Hogwarts' establishment and its creators. He knew their names, but not much beyond that. "He did that? Aren't there Muggleborn Slytherins, though?" He asked, glancing between the twelve year olds. To his surprise, both fell silent, with wary looks flourishing on their pale faces. It was contrasting to their typically snooty, cold nature, really. Pansy looked over at her best friend, an almost confused expression on her face as her dark eyebrows furrowed together. Malfoy, too, didn't have an answer.

"Well… yeah. We don't think there are a lot, though. Definitely none in our year." Pansy said hesitantly, her eyes still on Malfoy, seeking some sort of confirmation. She was met with a sure nod, before the two turned towards the scarred boy.

Harry frowned, his healthy eye narrowing, "How do you know for sure? Have you asked?"

Turning away, Malfoy crossed one arm over the other, reaching up to cover his mouth as he coughed. "Well, we know most of our classmates through family connections. Most are purebloods, obviously. Some are half-bloods. Hold on, what about you? You're definitely not a, uh, mudblood, for sure. The Potters are old wizarding blood, everyone knows that."

Shrugging, Harry leaned back in his seat in aloof relaxation as he spoke. "I don't know. Never really thought about it. I mean, why does it matter? My mother was a witch, she attended Hogwarts. That's all I need to know. She could've been of any blood, who cares?"

Wearily glancing back at Pansy, Malfoy frowned. They seemed to be experiencing some sort of epiphany, but Harry wasn't sure if it was from his Muggleborn-Slytherin comment or his little speech. Perhaps neither, really. All this revealed was how easily the kids were influenced by their families. They seemed to use 'mudblood' all willy nilly, but how much of it was on their own accord?

An awkward silence washed over the small, light compartment as the three students sat, unsure of how to continue the conversation. For once, nobody had a snarky remark or a smart-alecky response.

"So, are you two planning to try out for the team?" Malfoy asked conversationally, crossing his arms. He wasn't quite met with the response that he was looking for, Harry imagined, as the scarred boy warily glanced at Pansy. She, too, didn't have any positive reaction.

The choppy-haired girl raised an eyebrow, huffing, "You know I can't fly to save my life, Draco." The platinum-blond ignored her, instead shifting his stormy gaze towards Harry, who simply frowned. "I don't even like Quidditch."

Draco Malfoy sighed dramatically, shaking his head disapprovingly. "You two are so boring. Well, _I'm_ planning to try out. If I don't make it, you two are both free to attend my funeral, because I don't believe I will be able to survive the raw embarrassment when the standards are so low." He glanced down at his clean cuticles, his pointed face morphing into a sour scowl upon hearing Pansy's high-pitched guffaw.

"Alright, we will definitely keep that in mind, right, Potter?"

Harry snorted, a growing grin tugging on his rough, scarred cheek. "Sure, definitely." The two shared a laugh, much to the dismay of Malfoy. And so, the train ride went on.

* * *

He had to admit, witnessing the Sorting Ceremony was much more entertaining than actually participating in it.

Though he was only a year older, Harry was baffled that the First-years looked so… _young_? He really didn't want to call them that, because it honestly made him sound like an old, cynical man, but there weren't any other words that really fit. Perhaps naive? Either way, it didn't really matter. Along with the majority of the students, he had arrived to the ever-so-impressive Great Hall only minutes prior. As the surprisingly short file of First-years shyly strode in after McGonagall, Harry found himself intently watching the ceremony. It also helped that Malfoy and Pansy provided a quiet running commentary like some sort of hosts.

"Ooh, look at that one, she's probably going to end up with us."

"You think so? I don't know, she looks a little airheaded."

"No way, check out her dirty look at McGonagall. If she doesn't end up in Slytherin, the old bat will chuck her here, anyway."

As per usual, not a lot of students were sorted into Slytherin. There were some additions and Harry didn't like them one bit. Sulky and scowling, the new recruits strode towards their table silently. He quickly realized that he was like that once, too.

Slowly the line became shorter, but one student did catch his eye after watching a bunch of nobodies get sorted. She was very small, her build delicate and petite. Compared to the other kids, she appeared much more… fragile? If the wind blew past her, Harry wouldn't be surprised if she fell over. The girl had long, silvery-blonde hair, curly and wild. He had never seen such long hair, ever, as it almost reached down to her waist. It was pretty, he supposed.

"Lovegood, Luna!"

"Oh? I almost forgot she was attending this year."

Malfoy's voice broke him out of his musings. Harry turned to his right, glancing curiously at him. He quizzically arched a dark, bushy eyebrow, before turning back to look over at the mysterious girl. "You know her?"

His friend shrugged, looking fairly bored and unimpressed, as usual. "She is a pureblood. The Lovegoods are batty, but they're not Weasley-bad. Her mother was a fairly well-known and established witch, Selene Lovegood, I think her name was. Her father is a complete loon, though."

Malfoy recited the information briskly and quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. Harry looked at him, silently impressed, but unsurprised. It made sense that the heir would be so knowledgeable about her, especially if she was of ancient blood. He made a note of the strange usage of past tense when referring to the aforementioned witch, but he decided not to think too hard about it.

Luna made her way up, carefully sitting down on the creaky stool. Harry managed to get a good glimpse of her face. She was very pale, with half-lidded, almost sleepy eyes. Her uniform, even despite being assumedly the smallest size available, was still loose. The pureblood girl already seemed to establish her identity though, as upon further inspection, Harry noticed some oddities. For one, she wore differently-colored socks. On one leg, a lime-green sock with red polka dots was hiked up to her knee, while she wore a shin-high star-patterned, lilac sock on the other leg.

The scarred boy raised an eyebrow at the sight, intrigued. Perhaps it was because he had only encountered stuck-up, traditionalist purebloods in Slytherin, but she seemed… different. She was fairly relaxed and as seen by her accessories, he could tell she probably didn't care for appearances.

As McGonagall lowered the withered, gigantic witching hat onto the girl's head, she seemed to shrink under it, but a small smile blossomed on her face. The hat was on her head for a solid ten seconds, before it called out, "Ravenclaw!" Polite applause rang through the hall and Luna jumped off the stool, cheerfully skipping towards her appointed long table.

No more Sortings caught his eye, though, as the process quickly returned to being a long and boring one. Even the two Slytherins' narration couldn't save Harry from his impatience and when he dimly felt his stomach growl, he found himself wondering how long they had been sitting there. However, it seemed like the best sorting was saved for the last.

Pansy giggled, her hand daintily reaching up to grow her growing smirk. "Ohoho, here we go." Harry turned to glance at her, confused, but his lack of understanding was quickly addressed by McGonagall's cool, stern voice that pierced through the hall.

"Weasley, Ginevra!"

The Slytherins around him snorted in laughter and even Harry had to bite his lip in order to prevent a smile from growing on his face. It wasn't limited to their table, either, as he noticed that some students in Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, too, were amused.

A short girl with alarmingly bright bronze hair pranced up towards the stool, a bubbly skip to her step. As she turned around and sat down, Harry took a moment to study the ever-so-famous youngest Weasley that Malfoy and Pansy frequently mentioned. With a toothy grin and copper freckles that splashed on her pink cheeks like specks of paint, Ginny looked like a carbon, feminine copy of her brothers.

"Found your girlfriend, Zabini."

"Oh, shut up, Parkinson."

The Sorting Hat seemed to take its sweet time with the youngest Weasley, before finally deciding, "Gryffindor!"

Malfoy let out a dramatic sigh of relief, which caused several students near him to chortle. "Oh, thank Merlin. I was praying with all of my heart that she wouldn't end up in Slytherin."

Pansy snickered, her hand reaching up to brush a chunk of dark, wiry hair behind her ear. "She'd be the first student who would be forcibly ejected into a different house."

Glancing away, Harry found himself spacing out as soon as Dumbledore, dressed in long, pale blue robes, stepped forwards. He studied the other students around the palatial hall, his gaze slowly roaming through each table. Finally, it landed on the Gryffindor table and he raised his eyebrow in pleasant surprise when he didn't find Weasley, nor Longbottom, for that matter. "Hey, Malfoy," He whispered, his hand softly nudging the other boy's arm. "You notice anyone missing?"

Malfoy tore his bored stare off their headmaster, turning to half-interestedly face him, "Hm?" Harry jabbed his chin towards the Gryffindor table, resulting in the platinum-blond following his gaze as he shrewdly searched through the seated students.

"Oh, our favorite buffoons?" The pureblood whispered, his face morphing into a disgusted scowl, "Hopefully, they were locked inside their compartment and will be late. Or perhaps the train will just take them straight back to London."

Harry frowned, his eyebrow furrowing in mild puzzlement. "But Granger is here?" The scarred Slytherin whispered as he glanced over at Malfoy's profile, whose attention had returned towards the speaking Headmaster. "She's part of their trio, isn't she?"

"Who knows? I don't, nor do I care." Malfoy shrugged, though he watched Harry through the corner of his eye. "Have you noticed that Professor Snape is also missing, but there is a plate and goblet laid out near his seat? He might've left to go search for them, Dumbledore sometimes sends teachers out to do so. Perhaps, if we are lucky, we will brew a potion using ginger hair and chunks of fat tomorrow."

It took all of his will not to laugh, instead, Harry sharply bit the inside of his cheek to prevent the welled-up sound in his throat from coming out. Covering his mouth with his hand, he glanced away. Finally, Dumbledore finished his speech after what seemed like hours. Harry knew it was only a few minutes, but good god, the man never shut up. Strangely enough, within seconds after the feast magically sprouted and covered their wooden tables, he left the hall. Perhaps the fantastic duo from Gryffindor had finally been found, but right now, all that Harry could care about was the mouth-watering array of dishes laid out right in front of him.

* * *

While the majority of the school year had been nearly identical as last year's, Harry didn't exactly mind. It was definitely easier to repeat the same cycle, even if it did feel quite boring times, rather than having to adapt to a new schedule and bothersome events. Quite simply, he floated by without too much care in anything. Wake up, go to classes, study, hang around in the common room, go to sleep, repeat. It was the same concept every single day, excluding any holidays or weekends, but he couldn't say that he really minded. He preferred this quiet, mundane life over anything rambunctious, quite frankly. It was relaxing.

In a way, he almost developed an affinity for school work, as tragic as it sounded. Considering that he didn't particularly have any hobbies, really, nor did he do any extracurricular sports like Quidditch, it seemed that his time in Hogwarts was fairly one-tracked smooth sailing.

Harry never felt bored, apart from lectures or long-drawn out lessons. It was strange, because after having spending most of his days in his orphanage in apathy and limited autonomy, it was a bizarre change. Thankfully for him, it seemed that his social life was slowly getting resurrected from the grave, as now he found himself on speaking terms with most of his housemates. Malfoy and Pansy were obvious, but he even managed to get some words in with Zabini and Millicent Bulstrode, who were both as reserved as him. It was pleasant, really.

Even beyond his own house it seemed that other students were slowly relaxing. Sure, he got the occasional stares or two, but now it seemed that they moved onto more interesting things beyond his scars. He was definitely not complaining, though. Harry could use a break from all the gawking and whispers that occurred behind his back.

News and rumors had spread through his classes like wildfire, whispers and idle talk spoke of a new duelling club was being established by Professor Lockhart. Though Harry was initially excited, he quickly turned skeptical when he learned of who the man behind the idea was. If it was possible, Lockhart was worse than Quirrell, and Harry found himself vaguely wondering if he would ever get a good Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.

On the first day of his class, Lockhart yelped and sputtered upon laying his eyes on Harry's scars. With his reaction, it started a new wave of stares, though at this point, Harry was used to it. It did, however, show that his fellow Slytherins didn't care about his oddities much, as he noticed some of them, including Malfoy and Pansy, giving Lockhart dirty glares. It warmed his heart, slightly, but he was too annoyed to think about it at that point.

Now, he found himself in a large hall, cool and ancient. The November chill was beginning to settle inside the castle, as even in his conservative, covering uniform, the scarred boy found himself occasionally chattering his teeth or developing goosebumps on his unscarred arm. The corridor was dome-shaped, in a way, and the ceiling was magically enchanted to provide natural lighting and depict the outdoor sky. It was early in the day, only around eleven o'clock, so the entire indoor arena seemed to be fully brightened by the cadet blue, cloudless sky. In the center of the fairly empty hall stood a platform, long and wide, extending from one side of the room to the other. It was constructed from pale marble, with golden detailed sigils illustrating the lunar phases decorating the smooth, flaw-free surface.

Harry was standing by a small crowd of Second-year Slytherins in the north side to the grand, double-doored entranced of the hall. His group was perpendicular to the similarly-sized horde of Gryffindors, who were mixed with a smaller group of Hufflepuffs, which really consisted of perhaps five or so people. Some of his fellow classmates were glancing at their rivalled group with smug, almost excited looks, ready to quickly jump in and duel with the lions. Millicent Bulstrode, tall and heavy, was already glancing at Hermione Granger with a malicious glint in her dark brown eyes.

"You planning to have a field day with her, Millicent?" Harry found himself whispering, curiously glancing up at the tall mocha-haired girl with a raised eyebrow. She whirled her head at him, ready to attack with a snarky remark, but she seemed to sense that he was being genuine. "You bet I am, Potter. How long do you think she'll last?"

He shrugged, smiling in a teasing, whole-hearted manner. "I dunno, two minutes? Just try not to kill her, or something. 'Cause then you'd get in trouble, right? That wouldn't be good."

Millicent stared down at him, curiously, though her plain face broke out in a large, crooked-tooth smile. "Aye."

Their soft-voiced conversation was interrupted by the sound of the pompous teacher's throat being cleared. The golden-haired man beamed at them, his hands daintily placed on his hips as he began to speak. "Gather around! Everyone here? Okay, great! Welcome, all! Welcome to this humble little duelling club I have started to help you all hone and train your skills! Of course, I, myself have plenty experience with duelling, and you'd know if you have read my books," Lockhart winked charmingly, which resulted in several girls squealing excitedly.

Harry glanced around, noticing Millicent's deep scowl and Pansy's rolling of her eyes, which caused a soft smile to grow on his calloused face. Apparently, not all the girls here were heads-over-heels for the magnificent man.

"So, on with the show! Today, for our first session, I would like to introduce our guest and my assistant, Professor Snape!" Lockhart beamed widely, a smile worth a thousand galleons, as some women would say. The curly-haired blond clapped vigorously, though it only gathered some polite clapping in the audience due to the Potion Master's well-disliked, yet mutual, nature with half of the room.

Curiously glancing over at his head of house to assess his reaction, Harry was amused to see the oily-haired man discreetly roll his eyes, before returning to leer irritably at Lockhart. Truly, the two teachers were as different as apples and oranges, so putting them in a situation like this was bound to provide a show.

"Now, for starters, we will provide a small demonstration as your dear professor had mentioned to me that he has _some_ skill in duelling. Don't worry, guys, I'll go easy, you'll still have your Potions Master alive and well at the end of this!"

Behind him, Malfoy snorted, leaning in to mutter in Harry's ear. "Watch Lockhart get torn apart here."

Harry grinned, tilting his head slightly back. "Yikes. Snape looks like he wants to tear his head clean off."

"He probably would if he could, you know him."

The two boys shared a quiet chortle, though they quickly returned their full attention to the scene unfolding before them. Gracefully and almost in a noble manner, the two professors gathered their stances and wands, bowing deeply before walking in a simultaneous manner to their respective positions on the elevated platform.

"Now, we have followed customs of raising our wands and bowing to each other respectfully, as of tradition. At the count of three, we will cast our first, _non-killing_ , hopefully, spells. One… Two… Three!"

At his last syllable, Lockhart raised his wand almost in a lazy, cocky manner, which was easily contrasted by Snape's harsh flicking of his wrist. "Expelliarmus!" He called out and from his own, dark twisted wand flourished a bright, powerful beam of light, its hues resembling that of blood and fire. Within a blink of an eye, the spell made contact with Lockhart, forcibly ejecting his own spectacular wand from his loose grip. The weapon flew off, whirling into the crowd of slack-jawed Gryffindors. With a surprised grunt, Lockhart fell back, sliding backwards on the pristine, well-polished floor.

An applause exploded through their half of the room, with multiple cheers and laughter ringing over towards their antithesis house, the students of which glanced annoyedly at the Slytherins. With a lazy wave of his own hand, Snape glanced back with a warning leer, yet they knew he wasn't angry. Not with them, at least.

Pansy nudged Malfoy in his ribs, leaning in to speak with him and Harry, who was standing in front of them in the crowd. "Honestly, tell me, gentlemen. Is there anything this man _can't_ do?" She sighed over-exaggeratingly, though her act was quickly dropped as the choppy-haired girl began to laugh in her aristocratic manner once more.

After a long minute, with several Gryffindor and Hufflepuff girls flocking over the fallen professor with concern and worry, Lockhart finally stood up. Brushing imaginary dust off his slacks, the blond professor beamed once more in that notable, dashing way of his, though there was some weariness to it.

"Haha, yes! Well, there you have it, ladies and gentlemen. That," He sauntered back up to the stage, though Lockhart's smile wavered as he approached the tall, cold Potions professor. "-was a Disarming Charm. Very useful in a sticky situation, heh. Ah, now, where is my wand?" He glanced down at the crowd on his left, his wide beam quickly returning to his face once a girl reached over, his wand in her hand. He accepted it gracefully. "Thank you, Miss Brown. Now, a Disarming Charm is definitely a must-know spell, however, if I may make a comment, Professor, it was very obvious what spell you were aiming to use. Of course, I felt that it would be an instructional and sufficient for the students to be exposed to it." Lockhart chattered off, his hands waving dramatically as he pointedly ignored Snape's spiteful glare.

Behind him, Malfoy let out a low whistle and Harry knew they were thinking the same thing. If looks could kill, Lockhart would probably be impaled and burnt up on the stake, before being dropped six feet under.

"Now!" Lockhart clapped his hands, innocently turning away from the leering, dark man who Harry wouldn't be surprised if he was seconds away from throttling the blond prat. "Get into pairs and practice disarming each other! Injuries and killing will _not_ be accepted, thank you!"

Harry felt a tap on his shoulder, causing him to look back curiously. Malfoy was glancing at him with a smug, arched eyebrow as he crossed his arms. "Ready to lose, Potter?"

The scarred boy rolled his eye, though a mischievous smile was planted on his features. "Oh, you're on."

Behind them, he caught bits and pieces of conversation through the chatter. Pansy looked over at Millicent, a thoughtful look placed on her normally sneering face. "Bulstrode, partners?"

"Sorry, Parkinson. I've got my eye on that Granger girlie."

"Respectable. Alright, Zabini, you're up."

"What?"

Harry tuned out before things would turn truly nasty. Right before he did, though, he could've sworn he heard Zabini yell out in indignation and Pansy's high-pitched laughter. "So," the raven-haired boy turned to Malfoy, who met his eye. "Should we begin? Maybe we oughta move away from, uh… whatever is happening back there." He waved his hand vaguely behind them, where Zabini was helplessly stuck due to Pansy's iron grip on his arm. The dark-skinned lad gave the duo a pleading look, though Harry could only give him an apologetic shrug and frown.

The platinum-blond followed his viridescent gaze wearily, nodding his head. He outright ignored Zabini's silent pleas as he spoke, "Good idea."

The duo moved out away from their designated half of the hall, taking their positions opposite of each other. Standing over ten feet away from each other, Harry's grip on his own favored, yet mundane wand tightened. As he studied his opponent with what he hoped was a well-composed, impassive expression, Malfoy's pale face flourished into a cocky smirk.

"Afraid, Potter?"

A smug smile managed to snake its way onto his scarred face, "Of what? Breaking your wand? Just a bit." Harry said teasingly, which resulted in his friend letting out a snort of skepticism.

"You wish. Don't worry, after we're done, I'll buy you a new wand." Malfoy shrugged, raising his chin in the air as he leered down at him with a pompous glint in his eyes.

Harry raised his wooden, magical weapon in front of his face, his grin widening. "That won't be necessary."

The tension surrounding them seemed to double when Lockhart's voice reverberated through the room, calling out, "Alright, now, face your partners and _bow_!" Both of the boys tilted their heads forwards, the mischievous glints and coy smiles unwavering.

"Wands, ready! On the count of three, cast your spells to _only_ disarm your opponent! Ready? One-"

The boy's bright steel eyes glinted with excitement, his smirk deepening. Despite his wicked smile, his whole disposition betrayed him. Though only for a second, it revealed an almost giddy and childish side to him. Sometimes, Harry forgot they were even the same age, as the heir to the Malfoys often seemed much more mature.

"Two-"

Harry took a deep sigh to recompose himself, ignoring the slight trembling of his dominant, damaged hand. Malfoy greedily stepped forward, like an anticipating runner at the start line of a race.

"Three!"

In almost unison, though Malfoy was a heartbeat quicker, they yelled out their incantations. Bright flashes of the retina-burning light erupted from both of their wands. Within a millisecond, the dazzling spells had intercepted each other's areas, directly aiming towards the opposing wand. In a stupendous display, Harry's own fairly plain wand, masterfully crafted from dark cherry wood with intricate symbols of a different, perhaps more mystical language, was forcibly ejected from his hand. It flew out to his right, swiftly whirling up above, towards the tall, dome-like ceiling, before it landed somewhere amongst the students running amok. The blond Slytherin's own wand had met the same fate, though his weapon seemed to disappear into the crowd of many students behind him.

Malfoy arched a slim, light eyebrow at the almost anti-climactic fight, his face dejected. "That's it?" He sighed dully, a visage of boredom quickly replacing his former anticipatory disposition.

Harry merely shrugged, glancing away in an attempt to quickly search for his dropped, hopefully not broken, wand. "I guess. I'm gonna go check if you owe me twelve galleons." Malfoy acknowledged him with a nod and he, too, began to make his way opposite from the scarred boy's direction.

It seemed that not every duel was as short and well-natured as theirs was. One cast glance around the boisterous hall revealed that other kids either were dragging their fights out or they simply got carried away. Some have even dropped their wands and engaged their opponents in a physical fight, including Millicent. A chuckle escaped his lips, though he had to avert his gaze within a second, instead wincing sympathetically with Granger's yelp of pain.

Fortunately, it seemed his wand had landed in a place that wasn't very crowded, near a wall. Carefully picking it up, Harry studied it with a weary look on his face, checking for cracks and malfunctions. At the very least, if it was broken, Malfoy _did_ offer to replace it. Yet it seemed that today wasn't the day that he would have to plan a trip to Diagon Alley for the next break, luckily for his pureblooded friend.

After several minutes of settling down thanks to the two professors' interjection, the students had reverted to standing in their former positions on both ends of the hall. Lockhart, still standing on the elevated platform, glanced down at the students with a weary look to his eye.

"Alright, well," He clicked his tongue, sweeping a hesitant gaze at every individual in the crowd below him. He bristled upon glancing over at the Slytherins, all of whom either glared daggers or were impassive towards the famous man. "Let's try something else. How about-" Lockhart clapped his hands together, his signature wide smile returning back to his face, albeit forcibly. "-some shielding and blocking spells? Can't go wrong with those, right? Let's get some volunteers to come up!"

"They won't be 'volunteers', right?" Harry suddenly found himself whispering to Malfoy, who merely snorted, "Obviously."

"Okay, how about… Ah! Mr. Longbottom, would you like to demonstrate for us?"

"Um, I really don't…"

"Nonsense! Alright, please make your way up using the steps. Now, who else should we get-"

Suddenly, his sentence was interrupted by Snape, who cleared his throat as he leered over at his coworker. "Professor, if I may make a suggestion…"

Lockhart glanced at him wearily, his smile wavering for a second as he considered his options. After some hesitation, he spoke, his tone that of his typical bravado. "Oh? Go right ahead, Professor! Pick any volunteer of your choosing."

Without any warning, the head of the Slytherin house called out, "Potter, you're up."

"Huh?"

"It's not an invitation."

Harry gawked at him for several seconds until a hard shove brought him back to reality. "Potter, just go." Pansy hissed in his ear, resulting in him grimacing at the harsh, squeaky voice that was so close in proximity to his facial scars. "Don't look so grim. It's Longbottom, for god's sake. You'll live."

Forcing his legs to mechanically move, he stiffly walked up towards their designated steps. Carefully and slowly climbing up, Harry anxiously glanced up at his professor, who met his reluctancy with a narrowed glare. As he fiddled with his smooth, dark wand, Harry's fears were multiplied when he felt a harsh, iron grip clasp his shoulder. The scarred boy nearly jumped in startlement, further flinching when he heard a cold voice mutter in his ear.

"Consider using ' _serpensortia_ '."

Harry's throat felt dry as he glanced over at Longbottom across the stage, who, too, seemed nervous. As he silently watched Lockhart drop his wand in an attempt of demonstrating a spell, he frowned, "Er… Please correct me if I'm wrong, sir, but I thought that this was a demonstration for blocking spells…" He whispered feebly, though his concerns went unaddressed as Snape merely glanced down at him with an impassive, yet intimidating look. Looking down at his own plain wand with hesitation, Harry forced down the bile forming in his throat, instead deciding to keep his eye ahead. Lockhart finally backed away, his arms wide in the air.

Oh, well. What was the worst that could happen, right?

He took a deep breath, ignoring the soft footsteps of his teacher, who had backed away. Even after seeing the man constantly for two years, Harry still didn't know how he felt about his dreary professor. He neither liked him or disliked him, and in a way, he believed the neutral feeling was mutual, despite what Snape's passive-aggressive nature might say otherwise.

"Alright, ready?" Lockhart called out, pointedly ignoring looking at the Slytherin competitor.

A buzz filled the air as students around him began to whisper. Harry desperately wanted to reach up for his face with his hand, to cover up his jarring burns in a self-conscious manner, but for once, he couldn't. Perhaps he was too distressed, or maybe his tightly gripped wand that was quickly beginning to feel slick with sweat in his clammy, damaged hand forbade him from doing so. While most attention he usually gathered was negative and one that was akin to how animals must've felt as they were gawked at a zoo, the atmosphere in the hall was one of excitement, anticipation and curiosity.

The Boy Who Lived and the Boy Who Burned, both were one of a kind.

It would be, except for the fact that Harry only knew perhaps three combat spells in total, discounting the mysterious, ominous one that Snape had suggested a minute prior.

Well, if he wasn't ready, then Harry didn't even want to know how Neville Longbottom felt.

His gaze settled on his opponent. With his dark, cedar-brown hair and chubby, round face, the Gryffindor boy looked beyond fearful. As his viridescent eye studied Longbottom's disposition, Harry finally became aware of the pink, almost faded lightning scar that marked his large forehead.

Perhaps they were more alike than he thought.

"Three…" The lavishly dressed professor took a deep breath, before seemingly exhaling the rest of his sentence, "two-one-go!"

The abrupt change in rhythm almost threw him off, as he fumbled with his encarved wand before calling out the strange, alien incantation, "Serpensortia!" With a loud crackling as his felt a wave of unnatural heat course through his weapon, a blast of chartreuse smoke shot out. As he felt his own stomach fearfully drop, Harry reached up with his left arm to cover his face, letting out a heavy cough when he felt himself inhale the bitter, sharp green cloud in his lungs.

It quickly dissolved, though and loud shrieks and thunderous footsteps of students who scrambled back exploded through the room. When he regained his clear vision, a long snake slithered terrorizing over the clean, marble floor. Harry squinted in an attempt to identify the beast, but he gasped as he was hit with realization. It barely reached up to four meters, its scaly dark brown coat was mesmerizing to the eye as it twisted its body. With long, thin fangs and a hood stretching over its neck and head, he managed to identify it: a king cobra. He vaguely recalled his readings about it: it was said to be the longest venomous snake in the wild. Just his luck. It slowly advanced towards its chosen prey: some Second-year from Hufflepuff, while hissing and darting its thin, fork-like tongue in succession. The boy, Justin Finch-Fletchley, he recalled, scrambled back with a yelp, his fellow housemates cowering behind him.

A wave of determination and anger washed over Harry as he regained his lost confidence. As he dashed forward, he called out the first thing that came to mind. Strangely enough, his exclamation was simultaneous with Longbottom's own shaky, squeaky voice.

"Hey! Leave him alone!"

"Please, don't hurt him!"

The venomous serpent froze as if on cue, snapping its jaw almost in irritation and confusion. It glanced between the two boys who spoke the commands, peacefully backing down like a tamed beast. Harry let out a loud sigh of relief, his pale left hand reaching up to swipe the trickling beads of sweat of his eyebrow. He glanced up at Longbottom, shock and mystification quickly replacing his relived state. _He_ knew that snakes understood him and what he had to say, but what about the Boy Who Lived? Was it an impulsive decision, or was he, too, able to do the same? Longbottom met his stony gaze, his mouth slightly open in mutual understanding.

He felt a soft push as the tall Potions Master walked past him, his wand high in the air while wordlessly summoning an incantation. A wisp of smoke seeped out of his own dark, twisted weapon, quickly circling around the frozen reptile before it disappeared with a soft pop. Harry watched the process, dazed, before finally taking note of the unfavorable silence in the hall. He glanced around, eyebrows furrowed as several students gawked at him. Some yelped in surprise, others backed away cautiously. Most, though, had a strange look planted on their faces: a mixture of disgust and fear.

It was a look he knew very well.

Yet this time, it was… different. It was more primal, akin to how medieval Muggles must've felt when they encountered supposed users of witchcraft, or how ancient humans must've felt in the presence of a dangerous animal.

Mutters and whispers seemed to get louder, to which Harry responded with a soft flinch. He turned his head around towards his fellow Slytherins in hope of some comfort, some reassurance that everyone else was overreacting for no reason. Right? It was just like any other day, no matter what he did, it seemed that the students simply looked for an excuse to dislike him. What he didn't expect, however, was to see hesitancy and apprehension among his fellow housemates.

Millicent and Zabini glanced away, not quite meeting his eye. Pansy's dark gaze narrowed, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion and uncertainty. Malfoy's sterling eyes settled on the scarred boy, disbelief and dare he say, mild concern, present on his usually pale, pointed face.

Some Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors leaned into together, their hands covering their mouths as they quickly jumped to gossip. Through the incomprehensible, scrambled voices, he managed to pick out some phrases, though their empty words only made him feel worse. A feeling of a tug on his heart, as if a cold, steel-like hand tightly gripped on the muscle resonated through his body. Harry froze, his appendages cold even through the multiple layers of clothing.

"No way..."

"Parseltongues!? Will one of them open the Chamber of Secrets?"

"Longbottom and Potter are going to kill all the Muggleborns!"

"They're obviously both dark wizards, the Death Eaters _did_ leave their marks on them."

Countless voices seem to grow louder, clouding his mind until it became unbearable to even think straight. He couldn't breathe. This isn't what was supposed to happen. He wildly glanced down at his hands, unsure and in fear of what was happening.

Taking a step back, he dashed out. He ignored his professors calling for him, he didn't look back at the silent Slytherins, who stood there numbly. He nearly stumbled down the steps, before running for his target: the tall, monumental double-doors, as if they were the end of a dark tunnel.

Harry didn't meet Neville Longbottom's concerned and fearful gaze that matched his own as he fled.

* * *

Parseltongue.

The magical ability to vocally communicate with snakes. A wizard or witch who was able to do so. Both definitions applied.

It wasn't a very common gift. It only passed down through blood, like some sort of gene. Or mutation. One or the other.

Many mages were able to speak parseltongue in other parts of the world, but in Britain, it meant one single thing: a descendant of Salazar who carried the co-founder of Hogwarts' blood in their veins were said to inherit the gift, if they were capable of magic in the first place.

However, there was one single problem: Slytherin had no living direct descendants. Or perhaps he did, no one really knew the truth. None of his library readings had turned up anything, either.

Maybe his line died out after some centuries, or maybe his successors had integrated itself into Muggle society. Perhaps he even had bastards, children born out of wedlock, with no records written. The possibilities were endless. Now, it seemed two of his descendants were discovered around the same time.

Neville Longbottom and Harry Potter.

It was unrealistic, though. Harry was certain there was a mistake. How could he, plain ol' Harry, orphan and burn victim of a Greek Fire assault, be of the same blood as Salazar Slytherin, a legendary figure in British wizarding history? He initially thought that perhaps Neville was the 'real' Heir of Slytherin. He seemed to fit the bill, at first glance. Son of two powerful magic users, descended of an ancient Pureblood family, he who vanquished the Dark Lord only six years prior.

Yet now, it seemed that he and Harry were in the same boat. So far, Neville was the sweetest boy he had met since his first step in Hogwarts' old, dark halls. The boy with the lightning-shaped scar was a Gryffindor, already a big red flag in the whole theory, but he was also shy and easily startled. While he was hailed as a celebrity, known by every living British wizard and witch, he managed to stay humble. If anything, it seemed like he was _embarrassed_ of all the attention.

There was no way either of them could've been the heirs.

Could they?

Harry didn't know. He _didn't_ want to know. All he wanted, right now, was for this nightmare to be over. Even his fellow Slytherins, who had boasted of and even embraced the idea of the Chamber of Secrets, Salazar Slytherin's own creation hidden somewhere in the depths of the castle, were now hesitant. Were they frightened? Disgusted? Perhaps, in the end, they were no different from the rest of the school's populus.

Studying his dining table and its inhabitants, mild disgust and desperation washed over Harry. Nobody would dare to meet his eye, instead they simply ignored him and focused on their own conversations. How did this happen? Here he thought that for once in his life, he was accepted. Even well-liked. It was going so well, or so he thought. When he would wake up, he would genuinely feel excited to attend classes, to talk with his peers, to hang out with them in the common room after hours. Yet it all crumbled, like most things in this life. Even Malfoy wouldn't meet his eye. The blond merely glanced down at his soup, his hand gripping the golden table-spoon suspended in the air, as if he was deep in thought.

He couldn't handle it anymore. The tension was thick enough to slice with a butter knife and it was beginning to suffocate him. Slamming his fork down sharply, Harry stood up. He gave one last sweeping, betrayed glance over his fellow classmates before striding out of the Great Hall. No one paid him any attention, which at this point he was more than glad to experience. With all the Heir of Slytherin rubbish, perhaps everyone in that dining hall was thinking, 'good riddance', at his exit.

He walked quickly through the darkened halls, ignoring the portrait figures' idle talk and whispers among themselves. Making a beeline straight to the dungeons, the scarred boy walked until his knees ached. Tears welled up in his one, open eye, but he furiously rubbed at it with his clean, undamaged hand in an attempt to keep his emotions at bay. He couldn't do this, not now.

The walk down to the cold, ominous dungeons only took a few minutes. By this point in his wizarding career, Harry had no qualms about where everything was. He even learned some hallway shortcuts, which definitely helped accelerate his speed when he'd have a desire to go back and shut himself out in his dorm room, like for example, now.

When he arrived at the gray, stone statue of the serpent, the entrance to the Slytherin common room, Harry hoarsely whispered, "Fortitudo." Courage. Strength. Endurance. Forbearance. All words that mean the exact same thing. The weekly-changing passwords always fit his mood, strangely. He needed them now more than ever to get through this week. Or month. Or year. He didn't know how long this torture would last, would people ever stop caring? Maybe, just maybe, they'd forget about it. Yet it was unlikely.

Was he really the Heir of Slytherin? Harry never thought too much about the parseltongue ability, especially when he had a conversation with that one ball python back at Cloverfield. Such an innocent, ordinary ability. Really, it didn't seem dark at all. If anything, it was Muggles' idea of magic. How can being able to speak with an animal be so… bad?

' _Salazar Slytherin, founder of the Chamber of Secrets, rumored dark wizard, detested innocent Muggleborns for their blood. He spoke to serpents, just like you. Perhaps it won't be the only thing that runs in the family.'_

A nasty, soft voice spoke in his head, giggling as a surge of rage rushed through him. The voice, though, was gone as soon as it came. Harry angrily stormed into the empty, half-lit common room. Thankfully, no one was there. He covered his ears with his hands, wildly glancing around with blurred vision. Tears threatened to fall and for once, he let them.

He choked out a sob, furiously rubbing at his eye, wiping the free, rolling tears away. It was hopeless, for they just came coming and coming, like never-ending waterfalls. Glancing around desperately, for something, _anything_ , his knees gave way and he dropped to the rug-covered floor, hands first.

Why couldn't he just be happy for one _second_? Why did everything and everyone he loved have to get ripped away from him? First, his mum. Then, himself. Now, his friends. It wasn't fair. It seemed that he was forever cursed to be scorned, which wouldn't surprise him.

Wearily, Harry glanced up, letting out a harsh, piercing cough. His cheeks felt raw and his eye stung. Salty tears filled his mouth and he licked his chapped lips, flinching at the metallic taste over the cracked, dry flesh. The room seemed to grow bigger, looming over him with its deep dramatic shadows. It was then that he noticed something strange.

Though he spent nearly every day in this accursed room, the scarred boy never paid too much attention to the ominous, glaring portrait of Salazar Slytherin. It hung on the wall near the centre of the dome-like room. The exquisite, enchanted painting with mute, faded colors seemed enormous and _alive_. And in a way, it really was.

With a thin, gaunt face and long, snowy-white hair that was once youthful and healthy, Slytherin seemed to leer down at anyone who dared enter his line of vision. He had a disgusted, scornful frown placed on his face, which made him look decades older. While his face did shift occasionally, like most paintings in the school, Slytherin wasn't nearly as expressive as them. He didn't speak nor did he move his hands, instead he stiffly, yet neatly, folded them over his lap. He merely blinked from time to time and his bitter expression seemed to deepen upon noticing the young, emotional child. A long, alive python was draped over his shoulders, tamed and intimidating. It was said that a person's real age could be revealed by the condition of his hands. Grimacing when his curious gaze landed on the man's hands, Harry could see how the saying was true.

Slytherin's hands were, well, to put it nicely, _old._ Wrinkled and thin, his long, bony fingers resembled branches. His long nails, brittle and yellow, were terrifying to behold. Decorated on several digits lay beautiful and mystical rings, most of them were of a grey, lustrous color; assumedly silver. Some had jewels encrusted in them, sharp emeralds and brittle serpentines that shone brightly even in the dim illumination of the torches and the fireplace.

Though the portrait only depicted the legendary figure from waist up, Harry still managed to examine his fashion. He was dressed in regal robes, thick and unshapely. The dark-green fabric, while obviously very ancient in quality, must've been very expensive. Golds and silver was embroidered into his sleeves that hugged his bony wrists tightly. Over his collar, a slim, delicate chain comprised of copper hang snuggly around his neck. It was a curious pendant, one that looked fairly plain and even subdued compared to the rest of his mysterious jewelry. The locket itself was spherical, framed of the same metal. However at its very centre, surrounded by intricate, undecipherable writing and sigils was a long array of small peridots arranged in a sleek 'S'. Cheeky. Harry found himself staring up at him; hatred, desperation and awe all rolled into one.

It was impossible. While Harry had considered that he could potentially be related to the archmage very vaguely; as after all, he had lived a millennia prior, but it was just implausible.

Right?

No, definitely. Perhaps the dark ability didn't descend through blood. It wasn't especially impressive, really, maybe any Parseltongue just kept silent in fear of being outed or deemed related to the pureblood wizard. Yet as Harry's glassy gaze wandered over the painting, seeping in every detail, his jaw fell open. Peering down at the young apprentice, Slytherin had a shade of eye color that he had only seen twice in his own life.

It wasn't an unnatural color, but not one that Harry saw very frequently. The first person he had seen with them was dead. The other person was himself.

Staring directly at the portrait of Salazar Slytherin, Harry found himself deeply gazing into the bright, viridescent eyes that mirrored his own.

* * *

 **Author's Note** : A little bit of a twist, haha. It will be further explored upon in the next chapter, along with the rest of the drama. (: Once again, thanks to all your guys' support, I appreciate all the favorites, follows and reviews, it honestly means a lot!

Like always, I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter and thank you for reading!


	5. Huckleberry Friend

**Wildfire**

 **Chapter 5** : Huckleberry Friend

* * *

The old wizard's gaunt face wrinkled into a scowl as he broke off their stare. For the first time since Harry entered Hogwarts a year ago, the portrait spoke, his voice raspy and gruff. "Wipe your tears, boy," he leered down at the gaping student, his brilliant green eyes narrowing. "You have no need for them."

Harry must've stared at him for a solid moment, opening his mouth only to find out that no words could or would come out. He absently noted that his tears had stopped flowing, though his cheek still felt raw and wet. With his hands shakily raised, he allowed his left palm to brush past his smooth cheekbone as ordered. "You-you speak?"

The figure in the portrait reached up for his shoulder with the opposite hand, his long, boney fingers caressing the moving snake's head. Slytherin sneered, tilting his head upwards conceitedly. "What kind of question is that? Of course I speak, you insolent child. I merely prefer to stay silent."

The young student was abashed, his olive eye widening. For once, he found himself intimidated by an adult, and a wizard at that. "I… I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply…" Harry trailed off, flinching when he saw the his steely gaze harden.

"'I'm sorry, _my lord.'_ Learn to address your superiors, boy. Good heavens, do they not teach any respect at this pathetic excuse of a school?" Slytherin rolled his eyes, his nose crinkled in disgust. His pet clacked its jaw almost in an amused manner. Eyeing the beast warily, he gingerly took a step back away from the wall. Though Harry knew he was in no harm -at least, hopefully- the animated, realistic painting honestly frightened him.

"Huh? Er… I apologize, milord." Harry blinked, shrinking as he spoke with a meek, hesitant tone. The uncommon term felt alien on his tongue. It was curious how everyone else prefered to be referred by 'sir' or 'ma'am', yet apparently the medieval wizard demanded such an old honorific when being addressed. He found himself vaguely wondering whether or not the other co-founders felt the same way, but it was unlikely he would ever find out.

"Better. Enough of that, now. I do not wish to speak any more than I am obliged to. What are you sobbing over, boy? You are incredibly disruptive, I would be amazed if this entire wretched school has not heard you by now."

He had almost forgotten about his breakdown from a few minutes prior. Speaking with the legendary figure had washed away all remnants of his forsaken, melancholy mood, yet the callous reminder had resurfaced the lost feelings. Harry's shoulders dropped as he glanced down at his feet, his voice shaky. "I-it, it doesn't matter, milord. Nothing I do now will change anything."

"If you continue speaking in such foolish riddles, I will simply leave. Do not test my patience, boy."

A sour frown grew on Harry's face as he looked up to meet the Hogwarts co-founder's piercing eyes that seemed to lack any warmth, instead the dull green pools only reminded him of deadly poison and dangerous envy. He swallowed, forcing down bile and fear back down his sore throat. "Okay, fine. So, we had this duelling club thing, I guess. Uh, I cast this spell and out came out a snake, right? It tried to attack some other kid, but I called out to it and it stopped. My opponent did the same and it appeared as if it heard both of us. Now, everyone is saying that… I'm the Heir of Slytherin. Er, your heir, milord…" His voice trailed off as the painted figure frowned, a calculating glint flickering in his intimidating stare.

"How curious," Lord Slytherin mused, his accessorized hand reaching up to stroke his shortly-cropped, silver goatee in thought. "I was unaware that any of my descendants were alive. Who were your parents, boy? I would hope you are a pureblood, yes?" He inquired directly, his hoarse, rasping voice causing fear to run down the boy's spine like a thin thread of burning ice.

Pausing, Harry spoke slowly and carefully, not wanting to carelessly offend the historical figure, "I'm not exactly sure, milord. My father was a pureblood. I'm unsure of my mum, I know she attended this school… and, um, I have her eyes."

Emeralds met in a long battle of judgement as Slytherin's narrowed glare suspiciously studied the raven-haired boy. For a second, it almost seemed like his face softened, a ghost of a concernedly knowing look, but it quickly passed. Perhaps Harry imagined the notion. It wouldn't exactly be the first time, after all.

"Yes, I see it now. It appears you really are of my blood, in any case, if your claims of possessing my gift are true. What is your name, child?"

"Harry, milord. Harry Potter."

Any cordialness present in the deceased wizard's disposition, imagined or otherwise, quickly disappeared with the mention of his surname. "A Potter!? In my house? Never thought I would see the day," he gritted his teeth as his thin, gaunt face deepened into a disgusted grimace. "I cannot say that I have enjoyed hearing any stories about your ancestors."

Harry stared up at him blankly, before tearing his eye off him as he glanced around the luminescent room, an unsure frown further tugging down on his youthful cheeks. "Uh, yeah-" he nodded, clasping his clammy hands together in an attempt to soothe his nerves, "-well, maybe I'll be the first 'decent' one, then, milord."

It seemed that the enchanted portrait's subject quickly caught onto the layer of sarcasm underneath his words, as noted by his warning leer. Thankfully for Harry, he didn't bring any light onto his error, strangely enough. The bespectacled student wondered if perhaps he was still baffled over their supposed 'family connection'. He didn't even know what to make of it himself, either.

"Mayhaps. So, have you heard it?"

Harry frowned in puzzlement, "Heard what?" he echoed, before swiftly adding, "Milord?"

The serpent resting over Slytherin's shoulders flicked its forked tongue, unblinkingly watching Harry as if he was a tasty meal. He pointedly ignored meeting its sharp stare, instead focusing his gaze on the man himself, who snapped in annoyance, "The call, boy, the call! If you are truly of my blood, then I have no doubts that you would have heard _it_ by now."

"Uh, no…" He trailed off, his hand absent-mindedly reaching up to brush his soft ebony locks over his scars before he continued. "Sorry, milord. Doesn't ring a bell." No wonder every single wizard had no good things to say about the guy, good grief. Slytherin was exceptionally bizarre, but it wasn't like the standard was exactly high in the first place.

Outside, a jumble of muffled voices grew louder in unison with a low creaking of archaic doors and wood, piercing through the relative silence of the dark common room. The two male magic users instantaneously picked up on the quiet noises. The portrait of Salazar Slytherin abruptly glanced down at his apprentice with a callous and snide sneer on his wrinkled face. "Speaking of calls, that one is mine to bid you farewell, Harry Potter."

"We've been talking for five minutes." He raised a dark eyebrow in disbelief, but his deadpanned comment was quickly waved off by the wizard's hand.

"Next time, we may speak for another five. Perhaps by then we will know if you truly are my descendant. Godspeed, boy."

The portrait went dormant despite Harry's quiet protests, leaving him alone once more. The only sound present in the chamber was cacophonous crackling of the disturbingly ominous fireplace that struck a deep, primal fear in his heart.

* * *

The ancient library of Hogwarts had quickly became his second home within a few months into his school year. After the last class would finish, Harry would rush to his dorm to drop off any unneeded textbooks and utensils, and would then make his way over to the enormous archiving and educational facility.

He didn't want to speak with any of his housemates nor meet them in the eye. Initially, they seemed to respond in the same manner, but within a week or so, occasionally someone would glance over at him or make an attempt to approach him. Though he felt guilty over it, Harry found himself either ignoring them or making his exit before they could come up to him. Perhaps he was part of his problem, but every time someone would glance over at him, an anxious, gut-wrenching feeling would wash over him. Every time, he would vow to himself to speak to the next person and every time he broke his own promise.

Sighing tiredly, Harry leaned his leathery cheek into his hand. It was only now that he realized how truly boring reading was, especially when he forced himself to do so. It wasn't like he had any other options, though. His slim fingers reached over to the corner of his text as he boredly flipped the flimsy page over. This was… horrible.

Suddenly, a dark shadow loomed over his vision and he glanced up, an eyebrow raised. He was surprised to find Neville Longbottom standing over his table, a nervous expression planted on his round face. The Gryffindor's eyes widened, but a meek, shaky smile managed to pierce his features.

"Ah, sorry, I didn't mean to bother you…" Neville spoke, his hands reached up to clasp together. His honey eyes stared down at the sitting raven-haired boy with an apologetic, yet friendly light in his gaze.

Harry would've made a sarcastic remark, but something about the usually shy wizard's presence managed to relax him. His face softened as his calloused hand reached up towards his locks and scars in a modest manner. "It's okay, don't worry too much about it. So, did you need something?"

Neville turned his head back, glancing around the quiet, empty library in almost a worried, cautionary manner. Finally, he let out a small exhale, his eyebrows furrowing as he stared back down at the seating boy. His eyes settled on Harry, who realized that this was perhaps the first time they personally spoke to one another.

"Can-can I talk to you, Harry?" He questioned slowly, hesitantly standing upright as his tense shoulders dropped.

Harry raised an eyebrow at the notion, his hand slowly retracting from his own visage. "Huh? Uh, sure, I guess. What's going on?"

Taking a deep sigh, assumedly to comfort his nerves, Neville blurted out, "How are you faring?" His umber eyes watched him carefully, concern clearly reflected on his pink face. Harry was perplexed, his eyebrow knitting as he made an attempt to decipher the timid boy's intentions.

"What?" He asked plainly, to which the Gryffindor flushed a mild pink in embarrassment as he clarified. His tone was uncertain, as if this wasn't part of his plan, or perhaps even practiced speech.

"I mean, er… With the whole, um… Heir thing..." Neville trailed off, waving his hand lamely. Understanding washed over Harry, whose face softened for a brief moment, but it was quickly gone.

The burnt boy shrugged, leaning back in his wooden chair with crossed arms. "Could be better. No one's talking to me and I'm treated like some sort of freak, but it's not like it's anything new." His sardonic tone was replaced with an inquiring one as he glanced up at Neville, his dark eyebrow slightly raised, "What about you, though? You look like a wreck."

Neville blinked blankly, a discomforted frown crossing his features. "Oh," He replied dully, his hand reaching up to rub his other arm awkwardly. Sighing, the pudgy boy glanced away, his voice soft, "I feel the same. I don't know, it feels like I can't go anywhere without people… without people-"

"Staring at you? Talking rubbish behind your back, 'oh, here comes the Heir of Slytherin, I wonder who he's going to target next,' or spreading nasty lies?" Harry spat, though he didn't intend his words to come out in such a rough, spiteful manner. He expected the other boy to react in fear or grow flustered, but he was surprised to see his chestnut eyes soften, melancholy and hopelessness seemingly intensifying on his face.

"Yes, exactly like that." Neville whispered, appearing more dejected and exhausted than Harry had seen him in at least a year. Silence washed over them like a calm sea wave early in the morning, settling for several minutes.

Finally, the onyx-haired boy spoke, his voice sullen and forlorn, "I want to tell myself it will get better," he took a deep, shaky breath, avoiding meeting Neville Longbottom's unwavering gaze, "-but I don't know when, or how, for that matter."

For a long time, Neville was silent. A thoughtful expression flared on his features, his eyebrows furrowing together in concentration, "I think… I think, it'll get better, soon." He whispered, yet his voice slowly grew confident, "You know them, Harry. They get bored of the same gossip after a week. Better yet, if, um, this whole situation gets resolved, as in with the whole Chamber of Secrets myth, then I think everything will soon go back to normal."

Harry stared at him, surprise and comprehension slowly dawning over him. Suddenly, he found a new appreciation for the Boy Who Lived. For all his feeble and contrastingly shy nature to his reputation, it did seem that he had some wisdom gathered. "Huh," He vocalized, before sighing downheartedly, "I wish I shared your optimism, er, Neville."

The Gryffindor student flinched, a hurt and flustered expression flickering on his flushed face. "I-I, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

His viridescent eye widened and he shaked his head reverently, putting up his hands in a sign of peace, "No, I'm being genuine." Harry attempted, though it didn't seem that Neville's unconfident mood wavered, "You always seem to look at the bright side of things, that's a good trait to have."

As the mousy-haired boy skeptically glanced down at him, Harry could only sigh. He wasn't shocked that Neville was hesitant to accept his compliment, especially when he did seem to have a well-known reputation of being fairly cold and unapproachable among the students in their year.

"...thanks, Harry. Um, I know that you and Ron-" Harry bristled at this, but Neville kept talking, "-dislike each other and we don't talk much, but you're… really nice, actually. You don't see me as some sort of god or celebrity, or like a coward who got really lucky. It's… it's really refreshing, so I think what I'm trying to say is, um, thank you."

"It's no problem. I can say the same for you, really. I think you're the first genuinely kind person I've talked to yet."

A joyous smile blossomed on the kindly Gryffindor's face and for a second, it seemed the enchanted candles around them brightened, "I'm glad. Ah, it's getting late, so I think I'll head back to my dorm now. Essays to do and all."

Harry nodded, a soft smile playing on his lips. He offered a wave, watching as Neville began to turn away from his table. "Yup. Take care."

"Thanks, you, too. I'm happy we had this chat, sorry I took so much of your time. I'll see you around, Harry."

He watched the boy walk away as he leaned his chin into his hand, glancing back down at the open magical tome. His good mood slowly began to falter, though Harry was unsure why.

A shiver ran down his spine, an uncomfortable feeling of being watched suddenly piercing through his skin like sharp, jagged icicles. He glanced around the tranquil library, carefully studying every shelf and table spread through the gigantic area. However, it seemed that he was the only one present.

As his gaze landed on the farthest shelf, though, he could've sworn he saw a wisp of silvery-blonde hair disappear into the aisles.

* * *

Winter soon began to loom over the Scottish castle, hiding the dry, barren ground with its frozen tears of ice and fleecy snow. The cold had hit the mountains early. It was barely December and yet the harsh, skin-numbing bitterness was as strong as it was supposed to be around the New Year's.

Rubbing his hands together, Harry buried his scarred face into the green-and-grey scarf wrapped around his neck and jaw, relishing in its scratchy, wooly warmth. He prayed to whomever that this severe white season would not reflect contrastingly during the summer. Hot summers were the _worst_ , not only for his natural preference for cool weather, but also due to his affinity for covering, conservative attire. However, he doubted that the forthcoming warm months would be anything stronger than a mild climate.

Yet despite all his complaining, the young Slytherin found himself frequently going on walks around the castle grounds after growing bored with his mundane library sessions. While the corridors would often be half-filled with frolicking students, they tended to clear up pretty quickly. It also helped that as the days grew shorter, so did the crowds.

Slowly walking outside into the courtyard, the raven-haired lad shivered as the frigid wind breezed past him, leaving numbing kisses on his exposed, flushed skin. He carefully stepped onto the thin layer of snow, hoping that by some miracle that his loafers and socks wouldn't get wet. Knowing his luck, however, it was more than likely that was exactly what would happen.

With a soft sigh, Harry watched his warm breath get mixed with the cool, subzero air. He crossed his arms, pulling them closer to his torso in an attempt to get warmer. It wasn't horrible yet, in all honestly he only planned to stand around for a few minutes before going back to his common room. For now, all he wanted to do was to embrace the enchanted absolute zero temperatures.

He leaned his back against a stone pillar, studying the open area of the courtyard. It was a crossroad of sorts, fenced by long, open corridors that all deviated out into different parts of the castle. A neat sheet of fleecy snow covered the ground, thought it seemed to become uneven near the steps. Off to a side, though, perpendicular from where he stood, Harry noticed an interesting sight.

A First-year girl with long, silvery blonde hair was crouched down, her pale hands sculpting a small clump of snow together. She had her wand tucked behind her ear, yet occasionally she removed it to cast incomprehensible spells onto her creation. Her rough sculpture flared up in an opaline manner, shining up in several soft shades before quickly dying out.

Harry pitied her hands, pink and pruned from consistent handling of the white, cold material. He flinched sympathetically, but it appeared that she was either unaware of her condition or she just didn't care. Instead, a soft smile graced her features as she worked concentradely.

Well, it wasn't like he had anything else better to do, right?

Letting out a sharp exhale, the heated breath clouded his lenses for a brief second. Harry made his way towards the girl. Upon closer examination, he realized that he knew her. Or, at least he had _heard_ of her.

As he walked over to Luna Lovegood, Harry wondered if it was her hair he saw in the library a few weeks ago. His footsteps crunched on the pristine white ground, softly squeaking when he would push his heel off. The continuous rhythm caught her attention soon enough, as she raised her head and turned around, glancing up at him with a curious, half-lidded expression.

He shivered, though he was unsure whether or not it was from his slowly developing frostbite or her striking gaze. It was the first time he managed to get a closer look at the Ravenclaw girl. She was incredibly delicate, with ghostly-pale skin and petite features. She resembled one of those Victorian porcelain dolls, in a way, yet it almost creeped him out. Her eyes, framed by light eyelashes, were a cool periwinkle.

Finally, Luna blinked slowly, her head quizzically tilting to the side. "Hullo, have you also come here to look for Nargles?" She spoke, her voice a soft, melodic tone. It was much different from the other students' speech and Harry had to strain his ears in order to hear her properly.

Raising an eyebrow, he glanced down at her artistry, before shrugging. "Maybe. I'm not sure what I'm doing, really. Um, so, aren't you freezing? If you want, you can borrow my gloves, because that looks like it _really_ hurts." He jabbed his chin towards her pink, numb hands, which froze in the middle of crafting.

For a long time, Luna didn't speak. Her eyes wide, she watched him like a small prey would before a hunter. It was quite discomforting, really, as she didn't even blink. After a moment, though, she did just that, her eyebrows rising high in mild surprise. "Oh! Thank you for your concern, but I have a pair of my own mittens." At that, her small, snow-chaffed hand dug into her robe pocket, seemingly fishing for nothing until she finally pulled it back out. She revealed a clutched pair of bright woven mittens, assumedly homemade due to its loose threads and added accessories of buttons and corks. After a moment, she smiled serenely, shrugging. "It's easier to sculpt with my hands, plus, the body heat seems to attract the little critters."

Harry watched her, perplexed and unsure of how to respond. He supposed everyone had their quirks. "I see… Well, sorry to bother you, then, I guess. Good luck with your, er, hunt? Or is it a search?" He took a step back, slowly turning around until her songlike voice caught his attention.

"Search seems to fit more," The blonde girl mused, glancing up in his direction, but not quite at _him_. "I don't want to hurt them, just to look at them. They enjoy the courtyard a lot, but they only come out every other Thursday during freezing temperatures." She recited, seemingly more to herself than him.

Harry turned his head back, eyebrow arched quizzically. "That's… that's really specific." He spoke slowly, his marred face melted into a frown. "How do you know they even understand the concept of days?" The Slytherin inquired, curiosity slowly bubbling up inside him. It was starting to feel _really_ cold, but he supposed he could spare a few moments for her. Besides, it wasn't like he knew what she was talking about, anyway. It was fun to learn, though perhaps not in the way that teachers presented it.

Luna stopped, as if she hadn't considered that possibility. Her eyebrows knitted together in thought, humming lowly. "Hm… That's a fair point." She glanced up at him with almost a flicker of a newfound appreciation, a small, hazy smile growing on her pale face. "Perhaps there's another pattern that I don't know of, then. Thank you, Harry."

"You know my name?" He asked uncertainly, his seared hand reaching up to cover his imperfections in a bashful manner.

The Ravenclaw girl seemed to make no note of his anxious action. Luna shrugged, reaching up for her own wand as she pointed it down at her snow creation, flicking it once. A dim, opalescent light flashed, illuminating over her morphing pile. "It's a small world out there. Do you know my name?" Her head tilted curiously as she looked at him with those anomalous eyes of hers.

Harry froze, unsure of how to answer her question. Should he tell the truth? Maybe she'd find it creepy that he knew of her name despite this being their first meeting. Then again, she _did_ know him. Plus, she didn't really seem like the easily-offended type, anyway. He coughed, his voice faltering, "...yes. Luna Lovegood, right?"

A smile blossomed on her cheeks as she bowed her head politely, her pale blue eyes twinkling in mild amusement. "Pleased to meet you, Harry Potter. I've heard many things about you."

His face scrunched up in a sour, skeptical look. "Uh, like what? That I'm the only burnt kid in the school for some reason and how I'm supposedly the Heir of Slytherin?" Well, apparently he really was, but Harry wasn't going to admit the ugly truth to her, especially when he had only met the eccentric girl a few minutes ago.

He didn't mean to drop his bitter troubles onto her so unexpectedly, but it didn't seem that she minded. Instead, Luna only shrugged, something she seemed to do a lot of, as her hands reaching up to tug her woven blue-and-bronze scarf close to her face. "I hear a lot of things. Some of them bad, some of them good. I've also heard that you're smart, one of the brightest in Slytherin."

The ebony-haired boy was unsure whether or not she made that statement up on the spot or if she was telling the truth, but either way it comforted him. Warm butterflies fluttered in his stomach and he fought to keep a relieved smile from growing on his face. Instead, he only cleared his throat, glancing away from the crouching girl. "Well, that's the best rumor I've heard yet."

A childish giggle pierced his ears and Harry peered down at her through the edge of his metallic frames, pleased with his successful remark. "Now I know you have a sense of humor, too." Luna grinned, brushing a curly light lock of hair behind her pink ear.

"So, tell me more about those, uh, sorry, what did you call them?"

"...Nargles?"

"Yup."

"Did you know that they like to infest people's minds?"

"Really?"

And so, they talked. He didn't know how long they stood there, basking in the setting winter sun and its cool winds, but they did. As they conversed, Luna finally finished her icy masterpiece, though Harry had no idea what it was supposed to resemble. Despite him being a year older and them being in different houses, he found himself easily talking to the odd girl. She was weird, really weird, but it was a nice change of pace. For the first time in a month, he was having a conversation with one of his peers that spanned beyond a few words. It was incredibly refreshing and it was only now that Harry realized how deprived he was of friendly, wholesome socialization.

As he glanced down at the shorter speaking First-year, his face softened. The blonde was rambling about magical creatures and their properties, but it was interesting to listen to. He never heard of them and he didn't know if they were even real, but who knows? It was a wide, unknown world out there, perhaps the pureblood witch was right. Either way, it was always interesting to listen to others' passions, in a way, Harry almost felt envious of them. He wasn't really passionate about anything, honestly, he was just floating through life. Oh, well.

Finally, after aimless walking and trekking from the snowy courtyard to the dimly illuminated halls of the ancient fortress, Luna Lovegood finally turned to face him, staring up at the taller boy directly in the eye.

"Well, Harry, it was fun talking to you." She spoke, a soft cordial smile tugging on her cheeks. He smiled back, straining his charred cheek to do so, as his hand wandered up to his own face once more. As he studied her in the faint light of the torches that hung on the corridor's cobblestone walls, it was only now he noticed a splash of vibrant color in her long hair when he took note of her peculiar earrings. They were long and dangly, and the scarred boy dimly wondered how they didn't manage to get tangled in her wild hair. They took shape of small, scarlet radishes, but he quickly realized that they were actually _real_.

The Ravenclaw girl continued, her smile slowly growing. "But it's getting late, so if you don't mind, I'm going to go back up to my dorm. It gets dangerous at night, especially in the winter…" Luna trailed off ominously, resulting in Harry raising his dark, bushy eyebrow in mild skepticism and wonder. Her dreamily good mood quickly returned. "Thank you for accompanying me, though." She chirped in her notable sing-song voice.

Reaching up to rub the back of his calloused neck sheepishly, a lopsided grin managed to snake its way on his jarring face. "Nah, thank you. Seriously, I had a lot of fun, it's been awhile since I had such a pleasant conversation with, well, anyone. You know, since the whole Heir drama started..." Harry trailed off, unsure how to finish his statement, but much to his relief, Luna simply nodded in understanding.

"I'm glad, then. I believe you're innocent, if that makes you feel any better. Don't worry about the whole thing too much, I'm sure after the winter season ends, those pesky critters will stop controlling everyone's thoughts and everything will return back to normal." She nodded, as if that explained everything. Though she spoke in an eccentric manner, Harry knew she meant well, in her own, Luna-like way.

He smiled down at his acquaintance. It'd be pretty cool if he could manage to befriend her, but he was unsure of how likely the possibility was. Well, she did seem pretty amiable and approachable, and if he kept finding time to talk to her beyond their different schedules and house arrangements, then perhaps a friendship could form. He didn't want to push his luck though, after all, they had only spoken for the first time today. It'd be unlikely of befriending someone after one, albeit hours-long, conversation.

She wasn't Malfoy, though. Harry didn't have to worry about making a good, immaculate impression -not that he managed to with the Slytherin boy, anyway- but she was much more relaxed and easygoing. It was strange, as despite both of them being purebloods, one was much more conservative than the other. Yet it perhaps wasn't also a good thing, exactly. Draco Malfoy excessively cared about social standing while Luna seemed to just go with the flow. Harry vaguely wondered how others interpreted her unique nature, hopefully she wasn't bullied or anything like that. Knowing other kids, though... her weirdness, despite being likeable, was most likely not well reciprocated.

After all, people fear what they don't understand.

Harry found himself grieving over his uncertain, perhaps crumbled, friendship with the blond, sardonic boy. It's been over a month since the first meeting of the infamous Duelling Club event, but the two have barely spoken a word to each other. He didn't even know how Malfoy felt. Was he afraid? Did he hate him with a newfound disgust? Nobody in Slytherin had even took the Chamber myth seriously, instead playing along with the idea ever since the attacks started occurring early in fall while the rest of school's populus grew fearful. Was it still possible for them to be friends? Harry hoped so, from the core of his heart. For all his annoyance and friendly banter with the Malfoy heir, he still enjoyed interacting with him. Oh, well. He could worry about it later.

His face relaxed, his thin hand reaching up brush his dark locks over his shut eye. His viridescent eye landed on Luna's own periwinkle ones, hoping that his feelings of appreciation and relief were translated well enough in his words. "Thanks, Luna. That means a lot, seriously."

The younger girl nodded, humming softly, "Mhm. Oh, and Harry?"

"Yeah?"

Luna paused, pursing her lips in almost a nervous manner, which was the first time he saw her do so in the last few hours of their conversing. "Do you… mind if I do something?"

"Uh, I'd say depends on what it is, but sure. Is it bad?"

She shook her head, slowly and hesitantly stepping forwards to him, as if to demonstrate she meant no harm. Harry was tempted to take a step back, but he forced himself to stay put. "No, no. I just…"

As the blonde Ravenclaw reached out with her hand, she slowly hovered it near his scarred cheek, as if asking for permission to continue. In his bafflement, Harry found himself shakily nodding. As her thin fingers softly touched and glided over the leathery, darkened flesh, he flinched harshly. It seemed Luna didn't have a negative reaction, though; no disgust, no fear, no judgement. Instead, she tilted her head curiously, unblinkingly studying him in a shrewd manner.

He didn't know how long they stood there. The pads of her cold fingertips seemed to barely make contact with the disfigured flesh but they felt like scorching cigarette burns. Jade eye wide, Harry stared at her, unsure of how to react or feel. It was a gentle motion, one without any malevolence or horror, but he was still fearful and skeptical. She watched him in wonder, though her gaze softened as it landed down on his jaw. Despite being covered head to toe in heavy layers, with only his facial scars currently being exposed to the cruel world, Harry knew that she understood that they didn't end there. Everyone did, as his face, neck and hand were almost always exposed when inside the castle. What they didn't know was the scars' severity and true size.

Half of his body was disfigured, but perhaps he was over-exaggerating. No one else knew, nor would they ever know, because the Slytherin boy always dressed modestly. He always made a conscious decision to never pull up his sleeves or disrobe in the public showers. It was then that Harry wondered if he would ever feel comfortable with them, either through acceptance or apathy.

It was highly unlikely. The onyx-haired boy was truly glad that the burns had only managed to tarnish his back and the sides of his limbs, by some miracle. It meant that he would have to go actively seeking the scars out if he were to see them. Though it always made him feel bitter and dejected, somehow he found himself doing just that. It was unhealthy, but Harry couldn't help it. It was a deep desire from the deepest core of his gut to study the dark, reddish burned ruin for minutes, even hours on end. It was rare, but sometimes when he was truly bored or depressed, he decided to bow to his vices. Even more rarely, Harry would make attempts to pick at the hardened skin with his clean-cut nails, but his attempts were always unsuccessful.

If anything, he was beyond baffled that this peculiar girl was just looking, touching, studying them as if they weren't horrid. She was gazing at his face as if it was a soulful painting in a gallery and not the ugly truth that it really was. It was weird, really, really weird, but he couldn't say he disliked it. No one ever looked at his state in such a positive manner. The doctors were calculating. The adults were sympathetic. The kids were cruel.

Yet, now...

Finally, Luna smiled serenely, stepping away back to her original position, finally tearing off her agog stare. Glancing off at the cold, ominous walls, Harry was suddenly glad that this particular corridor seemed to be strangely missing any meddling and gossipping portraits. "Despite you constantly hiding your scars, I just wanted to say that," She paused, as if considering her words, "I think they're very interesting, in a good way, of course. I'm not sure what the others have been saying or if the Nargles have been clouding your brain with negative thoughts, but, I…"

Her peaceful, delicate voice dwindled. A deep fear struck his heart, resulting in his mouth going dry. Harry opened his mouth to speak, to apologize, to deny her empty words, to say _anything_. Actually, he didn't even know if they were empty. Luna Lovegood didn't seem like the lying type and she seemed genuine enough, but everyone had a dark side.

Maybe. Perhaps not everyone.

After a moment, she spoke once more. Her voice was quieter than he had ever heard it, but it was beyond that of a whisper. "I think that you shouldn't hide them. You can use them as your armor of sorts. That way, no one else could hurt you. Does that… make sense?" She frowned, cocking her head to the side.

Harry blinked, as if he suddenly dragged back to the reality. Swallowing dryly, he spoke, his voice cracked. "Huh?" Grimacing, he cleared his throat with a low cough, before continuing, "Uh, yeah… I never thought about it, really. No one's ever said that to me before, in such a nice, positive manner." His hand reached up for his scars but instead of covering them with his messy chunk of hair, he hesitantly brushed it back. It felt strange to not feel the soft texture of hair on the rough flesh, but he… kinda liked it, surprisingly.

A smile flickered across her petite features, "Well, there's a first time to everything, no?"

"Right. Um, thank you, it means a lot..."

It seemed her softer, gentle mood had come to an end, as it was quickly replaced by a whimsical, bubbly, yet still dreamlike tone. "You're quite welcome. Well, then, have a good evening, Harry."

With that, Luna gave him a wave, before turning around and making her way down the halls, a childish skip to her step. Her long silvery-gold locks bounced with her, resembling a wild blonde waterfall.

Before she was truly gone, though, Harry stepped forwards. It was a reckless move, but he couldn't let the seed of a budding friendship die. And so, he called out, "You too. Oh, and Luna?"

As soon as the last syllable left his lips, she stopped. Turning around, the young Ravenclaw glanced back at him curiously, staring at him with a wide-eyed look of expectation. "Hm?"

He took a deep breath, exhaling the rest of his sentence in one go, "Are you going to the courtyard again tomorrow?"

For a long moment, Luna stared at him and Harry feared that he made a grave error. Was his attempt too brave? What if this was a one-time conversation, or even worse, what if she decided that she changed her mind? Perhaps she thought she made a mistake in amusing him with his approach...

In spite that, all of his worries washed away when a bright grin blossomed on her pale, porcelain face.

* * *

It was truly a Christmas morning.

Sitting down at the mostly empty long table, Harry glanced down at his breakfast with a tired gaze. Due to the smaller population present during the holidays, less variety in foods was available. He didn't mind, though. As long as the quality and taste were okay, then he had no complaints. It wasn't like there was only one option available, anyway, as he could spot different dishes that were scattered on the wooden surface. Crisp, juicy sausages and bacon, fluffy cooked eggs with various condiments and styles, sugar-powdered French toast, fresh fruits, clean cheeses, black pudding, sun-dried tomatoes and chopped vegetables all caught his eye, but he did not feel the same wonder and astonishment as his first time seeing such lovely foods.

Slowly biting into his crunchy toast, Harry glanced around the opulent hall. In a strange way, it almost seemed larger with only ten-ish students present. It was a fewer amount than last year's winter break, but he supposed it made sense, with the growing fear of the attacks and the Chamber of Secrets. Not many still truly believed in the latter, but it wasn't hard to determine that the school's inhabitants were beginning to feel unsafe after various victims have been petrified.

Some had stayed behind, however. While he quickly noticed that most of the Slytherins, Luna and Neville had gone home, it was curious to see that the Weasley children and even more shockingly, Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson, had all stayed at Hogwarts for their holidays. It was strange, Harry imagined that because they all have their own stable families, they might've wanted to go back. Perhaps they couldn't? Either way, there was no point thinking about it now.

With minimal supervision or crowds developing, however, some arguments quickly began to form like dark thunderclouds. The dance between lions and snakes had begun to take its course.

At least for now he was able to enjoy the quiet before a storm, but that tranquil moment didn't last long when he noticed Pansy stand up and walk over to the Gryffindors' table with a mocking smile on her face. Her high-pitched voice seemed to go an octave higher in a false sympathetic tone when her dark eyes landed on Ron Weasley, who was glumly talking with another student, Seamus Finnigan, Harry recalled.

"Aww, Weasel, why so down? Mummy and Daddy couldn't afford to feed the family this year?" The choppy-haired girl crossed her arms, raising her chin patronizingly. Malfoy was close behind her, prancing up to the sitting duo with a bored, yet almost mocking scowl on his pale visage.

Weasley glared up at them, his freckled face scrunching up in loathing. Harry knew by now that he had a fiery temper, but it typically stayed subdued due to the constant presence of Neville and Granger. They weren't here now, though…

"Shut your mouth, Parkinson. What about you? Mummy and Daddy didn't want to suffer during the holidays with their brat?" He spat and even his housemate stared at him in shock. Harry suddenly took interest in his breakfast, his healthy eye studying the golden plate and the several samples of the servings that decorated it. He did, however, keep his ears open; he was always one to spectate fights. It wasn't good to do so, as even the young boy knew it made him as bad as the participants, but they were just so entertaining. It was like watching a train wreck: you couldn't look away even if you tried.

Malfoy let out a sound, a mixture of a short exhale and a condescending snort. He placed one hand on his hip and though Harry couldn't see his face from the angle he was seated in, it wasn't hard to imagine one of his infamous sneers right now. "Watch your tongue, Weasley. You're one to talk, seven kids in the litter and none of them are going home? Did your straw shack get destroyed by a blizzard?"

The copper-haired boy's face darkened in a vibrant mix of red and purple, his voice tight with fuming anger and embarrassment. "Sorry, Malfoy. Almost forgot about you and your stupid rat face, but I'm sure your mum would like to."

Malfoy stepped up to the bench, his fists clenched. Harry was surprised to hear that his normally drawly voice had gone a pitch higher as he seethingly snapped, "Leave my mother out of this, _blood traitor_."

It seemed that despite being disadvantaged in a two-on-one verbal fight, Weasley understood how to push the two Slytherins' buttons as he continued, his flushed cheeks tugging with a mocking smile, "What are ya gonna do about it? I feel bad for all your mums, having birthed a bunch of ugly snakes. Some burnt, too."

He pointedly glanced over at Harry with a jab of his chin. Harry raised an eyebrow at the sudden motion, his hand frozen in midair as the grip on his fork almost loosened entirely in surprise. Both standing Slytherin students whirled their heads back as they followed his gaze, though Malfoy's eyes slightly widened when he noticed Harry's presence.

Weasley, however, continued, "How's ol' scarface?" He questioned loudly and around him, the few students that were present turned their heads over toward the commotion, like the audience to a bloody gladiator battle. A dark expression slowly grew on his own disfigured face as Harry made an attempt to give the bumbling ginger boy his harshest glare. He kept talking, either ignoring the daggers thrown in his direction or simply not taking notice of them. "Did he kill your Muggleborn housemates yet? Or have you decided to do his job for him? I'm sure you'd love to, you pasty wannabe."

The obsidian-haired boy's anger diminished for a heartbeat as it was washed over by shock when he heard Malfoy's shrill, infuriated voice piercing through the air like arrows in the night.

"Keep your filthy mouth shut, you little putrid prat, or else-" The platinum-blond boy hissed, his hand reaching down into the pockets of his dark, flowing cloak, assumedly searching for a wand. "He's far better than you could _ever_ hope to be in twenty lifetimes, Weasley."

"Yeah? Or else what, Malfoy? What are you gonna do about-"

His nasally-spoken words were suddenly drowned out by yells of indignation and protests around the hall as Pansy quickly drew her own wand, her pug-like nose wrinkled in revulsion. Just before she could cast any sort of malicious hex that would send the Gryffindor on a one-way trip to the infirmary, Harry stood up from his seat, carefully placing down his fork to avoid any echoing clanks. The tension in the room was beginning to suffocate him, wrapping its cruel claws around his throat. It also didn't help that their fight escalated within seconds and he _really_ didn't want to see any bloody punches or hexes being thrown. At least, not now.

As he made a beeline towards the exit of the dining hall, for a good second it seemed that no one noticed his departure amongst the chaos. Just as he turned his wild-haired head around, he spotted Malfoy's steel gaze on his departing form. Embarrassed of his indirect causation of the fight, Harry swung one of the grand double doors open without looking back.

Thankfully, the cool medieval corridors were devoid of any inhabitants. Sighing, Harry broke out into a brisk pace, keeping his stare overhead. What now? He left, but what would happen? Despite the vertex of the several emotions he was feeling, anger, puzzlement, surprise; he found himself worried for his two housemates. They started the fight and provoked Weasley, but he still didn't want them to get hurt, even if they might've deserved it.

His footsteps echoed through the hall as he strode aimlessly, following the twists and turns of the hall rather than heading for any particular location. A loud creaking and the low thud of doors being opened quickly washed over his own noise and slowly, loud, dashing footsteps pierced through the corridor as they seemed to approach… him?

"Potter, wait!"

For the first time in weeks, the drawly, posh voice addressed him. Harry hesitated for a brief second, wondering if he should stop, turn around, hear him out, or do _something_. His heart pounding like marching drums, he whirled his head around, dark locks of midnight tossing over his face messily. It seemed that Malfoy hadn't caught up to him yet: he still could make a choice.

Harry kept walking, lowering his head down in almost a deep shame and rising anger. Why? Why now? He constantly wished that everything would go back to normal, that his classmates would speak to him once more without fear or wariness. But now that the opportunity was knocking at his door, he was getting cold feet. Perhaps it was selfish of him to desire socialization only to reject it, but he didn't care. Who cared if he was selfish? He was already a grotesque monstrosity in everyone's eyes, it's not like his reputation can dwindle any further, right?

Right. Definitely. Certainly.

Yet why was it that people still wanted to talk to him? Neville seeked him out, Luna clearly made an attempt to find out more about him through her own methods and now…

His two friends were chasing after him.

The signs were there: his existence wasn't useless. Despite his upbringing, despite his ravenous scars, despite his questionable status as Heir of Slytherin… there were still people that, for some strange reason that he couldn't fully comprehend, wanted to be around him. He was _wanted_. What a strange statement, Harry couldn't say he believed it to be true.

As the hurried footsteps grew louder down the silent, empty halls, another voice called out, high-pitched, girly and shrill, "Potter!"

He was surprised that Pansy, too, abandoned the fight with Weasley. They never backed down from a fight unless someone else, mostly a teacher or a Prefect, forcibly broke it up, so why now?

"Potter, come on! We know you can hear us!"

"We have to talk!"

Their voices were becoming clearer, more audible now. He wanted to make a run for it, but there was no point. Harry knew the duo were faster than him, in both reflexes and agility. His knees wavered hesitantly, causing him to tumble forwards, yet he barely managed to catch his footing before any catastrophe occurred. He didn't look back, in fear of seeing their expressions, of catching their eyes, of confronting the situation.

Suddenly, after a sputter of syllables, as if it physically hurt to say the alien word, the raven-haired boy heard Malfoy call out, "Harry!"

The raw shock was enough to stop him completely in his tracks. Harry turned around, his eye wide as he watched the two students jog up to him, their normally pale faces flushed from exhaustion.

His mouth dry, Harry forced himself to swallow as he searched for words. He wanted to ask so many things, say so much to them, he even wanted to savor the few moments of foreboding conversation before he would listen to what they had to say. For one fearful moment, he wondered if it was some sort of dream. It would be cruel if he woke up when the Slytherins would begin to speak, but it seemed that today the stars smiled down at him, for once in his life.

Instead, he only managed to vocalize one word, "Why?"

Pansy avoided meeting his pointed stare, instead coughing into her hand, breathing heavily in between. Malfoy's cool, sterling eyes narrowed heavily, returning a glare of equal intensity. "What do you mean, 'why'?" He asked and though he made an attempt to stay composed like usual, Harry absently noted the wavering tone in his smooth voice.

A boiling, nasty feeling grew inside him, like an enraged beast enchained. Unfortunately, he couldn't control it, no matter how hard he tried. Instead, he lashed out, his emerald eye narrowed, "Why are you two suddenly chasing after me after weeks? You haven't spoken a single word to me, much less even glance in my general direction since the Duelling Club. _Why_?" The last syllable that left his mouth was one of betrayal, strained and vulnerable.

For the first time since Harry had met him, Malfoy looked positively shocked. His eyebrows raised and eyes wide, his long pale face quickly shifted into a look of puzzlement and even mild indignation, "What? Potter, we _have_ been trying to approach you. Ever since a week after that stupid duel, but you just seem to always be gone to Merlin-knows-where." He exclaimed, hands in the air as he spoke.

Balking, Harry took a step back, a scowl growing on his features. "That's not an excuse, we live in the same dormitories. We have classes together, eat together, we spend more than two-thirds of our time in the same area!" His voice raised, his challenging stare darted between the two, whose faces were reflecting of their guilty natures.

The blond boy stopped, his mouth slightly open as he made an attempt to say something, before shutting it close. Finally, he sighed, averting his silver gaze down to the dusty marbled floor. "That's… you're right, that's true." He murmured, causing Pansy to look over at him with wide-eyed disbelief.

"Draco!"

Ignoring her, the pureblood continued speaking, reverting his attention back to Harry. "But- tell me, Potter. How would we have approached you in those cases? They're all public, this is perhaps the first moment in a month that we caught you alone without the rest of those buffoons flocking around."

Skeptical, Harry let out a short exhale of frustration, nose wrinkled as he jeered, "Which buffoons are you referring to, exactly?"

It seemed that Malfoy was finally pushed to his breaking point, not that Harry blamed him, as his pointed face flared up in a dim pink. "Everyone!" He snarled, the word echoing and bouncing off the cold walls. "Those dunderhead Gryffindors, our own craven housemates, those ratty gossipers who have nothing to do better with their time than whisper rubbish-"

"Isn't that what you do?" Harry interjected, crossing his arms stubbornly.

"It's different, Potter."

His damaged face contorted into one of rage, "Is it really?" The shorter boy snapped, his hand reaching up to readjust his spectacles, before continuing, "How are you any different than the rest of the lot? For the last month, it seems that the whole school has been against me; the ugly, scarred Slytherin outcast who will open the Chamber of Secrets and kill all the Muggleborns, because he's descended from that crazy old racist loon who couldn't even keep the count of his own bastards!"

Malfoy's face darkened as he lowered his head, glaring heatedly in an unblinking manner. "Don't say that, Potter. Don't you dare say that." He spoke lowly and for a brief second, fear struck his heart, but it was quickly replaced by harsh rebellion and snideness.

"What, that you two are both hypocrites? Or the truth about Salazar Slytherin?"

"No, neither! I-eugh," he let out a sigh of exasperation, but he continued nonetheless, his stormy eyes glinting with a fury, "you're always putting yourself down for no reason. How does that make _you_ any different from those idiots? You insult yourself much more than they could ever hurt you."

"Because it's true!"

"No, it's not! Potter, you may be a little dense sometimes, but you're none of those things-"

"I dunno, the mirror seems to say otherwise-"

His voice was interrupted by the enraged, flushed blond, whose fists were clenched until his knuckles were milky-white. "Who cares about your scars!? They're just scars! It's skin! Flesh, Potter! You're not some sort of _freak_ or whatever you like to claim, you're just a boy who got the short end of the stick! It's horrible, whatever, I get it, but plenty of people everywhere have scars! It's not the end of the world!"

It was strange seeing him like this. Harry had seen him angry plenty of times, either from frustration of schoolwork or being near the presence of the Weasleys, but this was much more extreme. Yet, he didn't resort to violence or magic, instead the heir to the Malfoys stood proud as he spoke. He wondered why the pureblood hadn't backed down yet, if this was infuriating him to such a deep, emotional level but realization quickly dawned on him: they were both too stubborn to do so.

Casting a warning glare at the other Slytherin, Harry tilted his head away, blocking the damaged half of his face from view. "Watch your mouth, Malfoy. If this is your way of making me feel better, then-"

"You know what? It is. Listen, none of _us_ care how you look. I don't know about the rest of that flock of sheep, but I can absolute guarantee that no one will care by what, next year? They're all empty fools, Potter, they like to look down on people to make themselves feel better."

"You _would_ know."

For a long moment, the two boys glared at each other stubbornly, neither backing down. Pansy, who watched the ordeal with a strange quietness suddenly coughed, crossing her arms over her chest as she glanced at Harry with a frown. "...Draco's right, Potter. Who cares for appearances?" She shrugged carelessly. Though she might've meant well, or not, knowing the snide girl, the notion seemed to only infuriate Harry more.

He broke off his stare first, whirling his head to gape at her for a brief second in disbelief, before his eye narrowed. "Everyone, Pansy! You two don't understand, you never had any sort of troubles in your lives! You two look like normal, pretty kids who come from nice, stable wizarding families-"

A dangerous leer crossed Pansy's face, darkening her expression in the process. "Don't talk about matters that you know nothing about, _Potter_."

"I'll stop when you two stop."

Dramatically sighing, the blond pureblood reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose in irritation, before speaking in a restrained manner, "Tell me, who exactly are you angry at, Potter? I don't understand what you want from us, we came to-"

Something inside him snapped, a deep feeling of betrayal and hurt that he had drowned so long ago was suddenly rekindled. It was a nasty emotion that made him want to lash out and hurt something, _anything_ , but before Harry could stop it, the words spilled out like wild sea waves on a stormy day.

"I don't know! I don't know who I'm angry at, okay!? I'm angry at the world, I'm angry at that Dark Lord who did _this_ -" he snarled, jabbing a finger pointedly towards his exposed leathery cheek. "I'm angry at my parents for leaving me, I'm angry at my mum for foolishly dying for me, though I know I'm ungrateful because she's the _only_ reason I'm alive! I'm angry at myself, for being so pathetically _weak_ -"

Both of the other Slytherin students stepped forward recklessly, the harsh stomping of their uniformed shoes echoing through the long, mundane chamber for half a second. The abrupt notion caused him to flinch, taking an anxious step backwards. Malfoy raised his hand, pointing directly at Harry's face as if he were to give him an order or threat, which in a way turned out to be both, much to the onyx-haired boy's surprise.

"You are not weak, Potter!" He snapped, an ugly grimace curling up on his nose and face, yet he didn't seem to care. "Don't you dare say that ever again, or you can expect to get the Weasley treatment!"

In a fit of rebellion, Harry lowered his chin, slowly stressing out the syllables in a quiet tone, "I-am-"

"No, you're not finishing that, I don't want to hear it."

Blinking perplexedly, the scarred student's tense shoulders dropped as the last of his wrath drained away, instead leaving him in a state of fatigue and confusion. A soft sigh left his lips as Harry solemnly glanced between the two purebloods, who both shared an expression of mixed determination and annoyance. They meant well, really, and as he thought about it more, he quickly began to regret his outburst. What were they arguing about? Did they do it just for the sake of a verbal battle, an inner conflict that wasn't common in their group, or was it a confrontation of deep, unresolved issues? In the end, Harry decided it was a mixture of both.

Swallowing dryly, his face softened into a mild, vulnerable frown. "...why?" He questioned quietly, clearing his sore throat from any raspiness, "Why are you two so stubborn about this? Why do you care?"

Pansy crossed her arms once more, tilting her head as she leered down at him. Her dark, intimidating eyes glinting as her eyebrows knitted in mild irritation. "You want to know _why_ we care? Because you're one of us! A Slytherin, a wizard, you're our classmate!"

"Wow, how noble of you two."

"Shut up for one second, Potter! Do you know why we're doing this? Don't answer that, it's a rhetorical question-" She raised a finger in a silencing motion, watching Harry open and close his mouth, akin to a fish. "-we're doing this because if we don't stand up for you, who will!? Do you think we're just some sort of blind, sheltered little rich kids who think everyone loves us? Because we don't! We _know_ everyone hates the Slytherins! We know the things they say, we know what that old buffer Dumbledore thinks, what the rest of the teachers think, what everyone thinks! 'Oh, those nasty little Slytherins, all of them practice the Dark Arts and supported You-Know-Who!' Dark wizards, evil seductresses, you name it! All Slytherins, right!? We have to stick together, because it seems like we're just pitted against the rest of the world from day one!"

Her lips curled up in a malicious sneer as she waved her hands. Harry stared at her, unsure how to react to her own little outburst. How long had she let these thoughts eat away at her? His wide emerald eye trailed over to Malfoy's form who, too, looked as confused as he felt. Hesitantly, he began to speak, his voice soft.

"Pansy-"

The aforementioned girl whirled her head at him so quickly he was afraid she might've snapped her neck. Her puggish nose wrinkled in further enragement as she hissed, "I said, _shut up!_ Potter, listen, even when the rest of the world is looking down on you, just know that we are here alongside you and your bloody hair that's bigger than your brain. You know what? For all your rubbish, I still like you, okay!?"

He raised his eyebrow in mild surprise and for a brief second, amusement. Pansy seemed to quickly catch it as she huffed loudly, "Don't get the wrong idea, Potter, wipe that stupid look off your face or I'll punch it clean off! We _all_ like you, that's the truth! Me, that idiot Zabini, Bulstrode, even those kids you barely speak with, like that mad loon, Theodore Nott! We all like you, even if we won't admit it aloud. You're clever, maybe-" she shrugged, rolling her eyes apathetically, "-funny, somewhat unlikely, but you fit right in! You don't demean us like the rest of the school, but instead you embrace it! Ol' Draco here likes you, too, but he'll do his song and dance here in a second, _right_?" Pansy elbowed the taller boy who stood beside her, a mild smirk growing on her now seemingly relaxed face when she noticed Malfoy's look of indignation.

Knowing it would be a battle that he would lose if he were to object, the blond simply sighed, his hand reaching up to brush back his sleek, neat hair in mild frustration. "Pansy's right, Potter. I-" Malfoy began, though he paused in consideration for a moment, only to continue when the shorter girl's dirty glare landed on him. "Look, I don't say this a lot, but… you're my friend, okay? Our friend. It's strange, I don't think I've ever said that to _anyone_ , actually. You are my first friend that I have met on my accord, without my parents handpicking some sort of perfect, good pureblood heir of some old noble family. That's why I don't want… I don't want... eugh-"

Harry watched as he struggled with his emotions with an impassive, yet curious expression planted on his face. It was something that he had dreamed of hearing, spent many days and nights worrying over, but now that the words were uttered aloud, he had _no idea_ how to react. It could've been worse though, he supposed, considering the extremity of their feud a few minutes prior.

A snort escaped Pansy's throat as she glanced over at the conflicted boy, her dark eyebrow raised painfully high. "For heaven's sake, Draco, just spit it out. It's not that hard-"

"Shut up. Anyway, it's why I don't want to lose you and our friendship over nothing, okay? There, I said it. Now, to both of you, don't ask me for anything ever again."

His words were left hanging in the air for a few seconds as the trio glanced between each other, unsure of what would happen now. All of them were emotionally reserved, at least when it came to revealing their vulnerability, so they reacted to his well-meaning words with the only way they could.

"Wow, Malfoy," Harry let out a low whistle, an amused, teasing half-smile tugging on his leathery cheek, "you really _do_ have a heart."

"Don't make me regret my words, Potter."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

Though the pureblooded student opened his mouth to make a sardonic remark, he simply sighed, much to the amusement of his two friends.

And for a joyous moment, Harry felt at peace. Even so, he had a deep foreboding feeling that somehow, despite his rejuvenated friendships and the state of calm he was in, his short-lived happiness was going to come crashing down soon.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Just a nice little chapter of bittersweet, wholesome interactions, haha. (': Don't worry, next one will be filled with some more action as we will close off second year. Not sure how long it would take, but it should be within the next few weeks, hopefully! Once again, thank you all so much for your support, it makes me beyond happy.

I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter and like always, thank you for reading and tagging along with me on its progress! :D


	6. Snake Eyes

**Wildfire**

 **Chapter 6:** Snake Eyes

* * *

Soft chatter and occasional crinkles of parchment being shuffled continuously buzzed in his ears. Sighing loudly, the boy leaned his forehead against his hand as his eye darted between the etched lines, smooth words written in cursive flooding his mind until he couldn't decipher them. The stress of forthcoming exams were slowly beginning to take its toll on him, the pressure on his shoulders was akin to that of the sky's mass. Strangely enough, it seemed that the girl across him wasn't struggling much, if not at all.

Luna, despite her usual dreamy disposition, was deep in concentration. Her pale, silvery-blue eyes seemed to quickly intake the information laid out in front of her with relative ease, as if the various educational texts were mere light reading material. Harry glanced up, perplexed, as he watched her for several moments in a trance.

"Is something the matter, Harry?" She asked serenely, sparing him a glance as her unblinking gaze seemed to breeze through the several formulas and definitions demonstrated in her First-year textbooks.

"How are you so calm?" He gawked, watching her flip another large, well-maintained page with her small, slim fingers. The blonde finally glanced up at him, tilting her head to the side similarly to a curious owl.

"What do you mean?"

Deep lush forests met a stormy Scottish sea as for a solid moment, Harry merely stared at his friend. Though he never doubted her intelligence, despite her eccentric, daydreaming nature, Luna Lovegood continued to shock him everyday. He supposed it made sense, as she was in Ravenclaw, so she must've been brilliant. It did make him wonder how he was constantly surrounded by students of higher caliber than him. Though he wasn't an awful student, as it was more than likely that he was actually above average, it seemed that he only talked to prodigies and child geniuses. As if his self-confidence couldn't get any worse, good grief.

At least she was incredibly humble about it, unlike the others. In fact, her nature made him respect the odd First-year even more. It took a lot of self-restraint to not grow narcissistic over one's intelligence.

A small, teasing smile grew on his smooth cheek, as he let out a short, amused exhale. "We have exams tomorrow and you're, like, not stressed at all. What are your secrets, Luna?"

Her pale eyebrows flew up, though her eyes remained half-lidded. "Well, I can't tell you, otherwise they wouldn't be secrets then, yes?" Luna giggled, her fingers reaching up to fiddle with a dangly radish earring.

"Luna!"

"That's me. Hullo, Harry." Her giggle grew louder when she noticed his exasperated expression, letting out several squeaks and snorts in her amusement.

Right as he opened his mouth, ready to make a sardonic remark, a familiar boy's distressed voice interrupted the duo.

"Harry!"

Thunderous footsteps in quick succession seemed to aim straight towards their designated table in the corner of the grandiose library, huffs and puffs following the noise shortly. Harry irritably glanced back, shifting in his wooden chair. His face softened into its typical stoic nature when he noticed Neville Longbottom's flushed, anxiety-riddled face. The Gryffindor, upon reaching their table, let out a heave of utter exhaustion, as if he had been running for hours.

"Neville? What's wrong?"

Luna raised her eyebrows at the sight, watching the boy gasp for breath with her unique calmness. "Hullo, Neville Longbottom, you look as flushed as a fire cranberry. Are you feeling alright? Are any critters bothering you?"

"Hi-Luna, no, I don't think so." The Boy Who Lived placed his hands flatly on the wooden surface, leaning over to the burnt boy. "Harry, I'm sorry it's come to this, but I need your help." He whispered urgently, his cedar eyes wide.

"What for-"

"Ginny Weasley had been taken away into the Chamber of Secrets. Harry, I have a feeling in my gut, this is it." He took another large gulp of air, watching the Slytherin's expression harden in a mixture of shock and calculation. "We've gotta go, I know where it is. You're the only one I can trust in this, please."

Harry blinked, his hand tensely reaching up to brush ebony locks away from his disfigured cheek. Thankfully, it seemed no one had a reaction to it. "What- wait, are you sure?"

Neville crouched, his head whirling back to check if anyone was eavesdropping on them. "I am, ever since Hermione was petrified, I've been doing research on what it is- oh, Harry, it's horrible. The beast inside the Chamber is a basilisk! His gaze petrifies anyone who meets it!" He whispered harshly, letting out a disturbed, fearful shudder.

Realization dawned onto the Slytherin student. So, _that's_ what all those mysterious disappearances were about. Though the school had been on edge ever since autumn, it seemed that the puzzle pieces were finally coming together. "Is that how all those students have been getting petrified since October? If the thing is in the Chamber, then how did they see its eyes? I thought the Chamber was closed off?" Harry questioned, glancing between his allies.

To both of the boys' surprise, Luna answered. "It might've been that they never went inside the Chamber, instead they could've seen glimpses through reflections. Like water, mirrors, photographs…" She mused quietly. Despite the grave tone in her voice, she seemed as hazy as ever. Her piercing gaze slowly moved between the two boys, who both gawked at her.

Neville nodded in agreement, as if the thought hadn't crossed his mind. "Yeah, wait, that makes a lot of sense. Ginny is the first one to be dragged in there, and we're the only ones who could access it. No one else is a Parseltongue here."

Harry merely sucked in a sharp breath, warily glancing up at the looming Gryffindor. "This sounds incredibly dangerous…"

"We're the only ones who could do anything about it. Please, Harry, while getting petrified isn't permanent, who knows what could happen to her down there? She's an innocent." He pleaded. His noble words seemed to struck a chord in the scarred boy's heart, but Harry held his ground.

It seemed that he was to be outnumbered, however, as Luna tucked her chin into her hand as she spoke. "I think you should go, Harry. At the very least, it could be an adventure. Not everyone gets to see the basilisk and live. I would join along, but I doubt I'd be of much use. I'll just bring you two down." The blonde let out a shaky breath, and despite feeling bad that he was essentially abandoning her, perhaps it might be for the best. Luna was a year younger, so even despite her pureblood status, it was likely that she didn't know many, if not any, combatting spells. Not that he knew much more, but he didn't want to drag her into his own problems. If she, one of his only friends, got hurt… he'd never forgive himself.

Harry stared at her, unsure of how to respond. Her self-deprecating comments gathered some concern from him, but he didn't make a vocal note of it. "That's implying that I would live." He raised an eyebrow in exasperation at her strange optimism, yet a soft, hesitant hand placed on his shoulder drowned his annoyance away, even if it was for just a second.

The warm amber eyes of the Boy Who Lived seemed to have the power of a thousand suns as he seemed to directly stare into his own viridian gaze. "Please, Harry. Everyone would be in danger…"

For a moment, he quickly wondered what he should do. His mind told him one thing, yet his gut tempted him with another choice. Finally, Harry let out a deep sigh, one that was telling of his lack of enthusiasm for the mission ahead. "Good grief, okay, I get it. Alright, let's go, I'm right behind you." He stood up, shifting out of his position between the desk and chair.

The tension, while still looming over them like a suffocating winter quilt, seemed to be lifted ever so slightly. Neville let out a soft breath and Luna studied them with an undecipherable expression, it was some sort of mix between her typical half-lidded gaze, yet it was tightened with some worry.

The sight caused a frown to tug on Harry's cheeks as he turned to meet her vague stare with a determined one of his own. "Luna, if we're not back-"

She chimed in softly, a hesitant ghost of a smile dancing on her petite features. "If you aren't back in an hour, I'll seek help."

Neville nodded in appreciation, glancing at the bizarre girl with a newfound respect. The notion only caused a soft smile to flourish on his own visage as Harry nodded curtly. "Thank you."

"You two will be fine, I'm sure of it."

With a shrug, Harry turned to his temporary companion for the next uncertain period of time. "Yeah, we'll be back. Lead the way, Neville." The chubby boy nodded and broke out into a brisk pace, dashing out of the fairly isolated library. Harry had no difficulty keeping up with him, as he even had to restrain his speed just so he can stay behind him.

They didn't travel far, nor long, as the two boys seemingly made their way to the location that Harry least expected.

Raising his eyebrow, he took a swift glance around the large, sea-green lavatory. A cool, ominous atmosphere seemed to settle in the air as his skeptical eye studied his surroundings. Various stalls decorated the walls, all pristine and kept in high condition, as seen apparent by the lack of mold and peeled paint. In the center, a octagonal sink was carved into a tall, white marble pillar that extended high into the ceiling.

"Is the entrance really in the washrooms? That's disgusting." Harry scowled, crossing his arms over his chest. With one hand, he carefully readjusted the loose sleeves of his shapeless, pewter-colored cloak.

Neville nodded in confirmation, though he, too, looked off-put by the revelation. "Let's try speaking in Parseltongue, see if there's any reaction. That must be the secret to opening the Chamber." He spoke softly, his umber eyes gazing over every corner of the, thankfully, empty washroom.

"How do we just _switch_ to Parseltongue? There aren't any snakes here."

A menacing feeling brewed in the air, crawling down their spines like a swarm of maggots. Harry shivered, his hand quickly reaching up to feel the back of his half-scarred neck in attempt to find some reassurance. It felt like someone, _something,_ was watching them, listening to their every move, every step, every word, but they were the only ones present.

What was this intimidating aura? Neville seemed to feel it too as he cautiously glanced at the Slytherin student, his back straightening for just a moment.

"Wait… don't tell me _it_ can hear us." Harry whispered, his hands curling into tightly-balled fists as he tried to soothe his rampaging nerves.

The mousy-haired boy slowly nodded, turning his attention to the uniquely-designed sinks. "Unfortunately, I think so. Try to address it."

Harry wasn't exactly sure why _he_ was the one who was given the task to do so, but there wasn't time to complain. Instead, he coughed, following Neville's gaze with a skeptical one of his own. " _Hello? Can anyone hear us? Uh-"_

Before he could finish his improvisation attempt, a low rumbling reverberated through every single tile crack in the area. Immediately jumping back, the two boys drew their wands with minimal hesitation. Instead of any destruction or enemy jumping out, the central pillar slowly rotated clockwise, causing a light rainfall of chalky dust to sprinkle from the ceiling. Within seconds, the sinks had mechanically retracted to reveal a low, dark entrance and a murky, contrasting spiral staircase leading downwards.

"Oh, wow, that actually worked." Harry couldn't keep the mild surprise away from his normally emotionless tone.

Neville, despite his gawking, quickly shrugged it off. He stepped forwards, taking in a deep gulp of air as he studied the unsafe, stone steps. "Alright, are you ready to go?"

Harry shrugged, "About as ready as I'll ever be."

With that, the two boys set off downwards into the unknown. With a soft casting of the Lumos spell, Neville led the way, carefully taking singular steps in the uneven, claustrophobic tunnel. After a few minutes, when they had descended an uncountable amount of levels, the same grumble from earlier had echoed once more, now much quieter. With that event, all cracks of light sans their magically produced one had disappeared, leaving the duo in relative darkness.

"Where's your best mate, anyway?" Harry asked, his voice barely above a whisper as he traced his palm over the dark, damp cobblestone wall.

"Lockhart got on our backs an hour ago, Ron has been distracting him while I went to go search for you."

"Huh, so he's actually useful."

A weary silence had befell on them once more. The unstoppable tranquility seemed to take no prisoners as instead, the scarred boy felt as if he was being suffocated. Perhaps it was also the fear of the unknown, as he had no idea of the true severity of what lay ahead of them. So, despite his usually introverted nature, Harry kept talking. "Neville, do you even _have_ a strategy?"

The sudden question seemed to break through the pureblood's concentrated trance as he stumbled over his words. "Er… I would, usually, but I have no idea what to expect, really…"

"I see. Alright, here's our last resort: if all goes to hell, we use our legs." Harry nodded, patting his own thigh with a firm clasp.

The sharp sound caused Neville to glance back, and even in the almost near darkness, he could see his brows furrowing in confusion. "What? How?"

"To run away."

The leading boy let out a short sound, a mixture of a chuckle and a wary exhale. At least even if they were marching towards their dance with death, the students could still find some sort of amusement. "Sounds good enough to me, but I'm not leaving without Ginny. Can you imagine what would happen if she died? Oh, good heavens-"

"She's not dead. Don't think like that, it's only gonna stress you out more. She'll be fine, Neville, we'll be fine." Harry said quickly, uttering any sensible words that came to mind. They couldn't afford to panic, not now. Besides, it wasn't like he was completely lying.

Even if he couldn't see it, Harry could've sworn the Gryffindor student smiled in the near darkness. "Thanks, Harry. I'm just glad you're here now."

The rest of their walk continued in the previously constraining silence, though this time, it didn't feel fearful. After some time, perhaps a few minutes, they finally reached the last step. A low, greenish-blue light filled his vision as he squinted at his sudden exposure to it.

They reached an enormous corridor, one that seemed to hold no exits or entrances besides the one they just came from. An endless ceiling loomed over them, curling like a dome. It didn't resemble any ideas he had of a sewer, instead it looked like some sort of ancient battle arena. A low stench of dirty water and mold filled his nostrils as Harry grimaced. Across them, around thirty meters away, a monumental statue of an old man's face was carved into the walls. His stern expression was intimidating, as even when crafted from crumbling stone, it seemed that Salazar Slytherin left his mark everywhere he went.

Good grief.

The chamber itself was empty, with no presence of life present except...

"Ginny! Oh, Ginny, wake up, please…"

Neville recklessly ran towards the unmoving form of the ginger girl, with Harry quickly following in pursuit. Her body was stiff and pale, resembling more of a faded statue than flesh and blood. Her eyes were softly shut as if she were sound asleep. Her freckled hands were carefully clasped over her chest, clutching a dark, leather-bound book that appeared incredibly archaic.

Harry watched the ordeal as his own blood ran cold. The sense of foreboding and fear trickled down his spine like melting icicles, yet the only sign of his anxiety was revealed through his wide eye. His breath hitched in his throat as he struggled to speak, throwing out any suggestions that came to his highly alert mind, "I, um, can you hear her breathing? Or-or some sort of heartbeat?"

Kneeling, Neville clutched the girl's pale, porcelain-like hand, gasping slightly. He leaned in, the only sound shrouding them were the sounds of their frightened panting and his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. After a second, he retracted his head away from her own and turned to glance up at Harry, his own cedar eyes bulging out in distress.

"I can't tell, Harry, I c-can't even think straight, what if she's-"

"She is not dead, at least, not yet."

A cool, smooth voice interjected and Harry whirled his head back, his eye settling on the mysterious figure.

Tall and handsome, a young man, barely older than sixteen, stood a few feet away from them. He was slim, but not malnourished or effeminate. With a gaunt face and high cheekbones, his pale skin was free of imperfections. He raised his hand, brushing his fingers through his dark ebony locks as a very vague smirk grew on his face.

"My, isn't this poetic? A young maiden in distress and her… two knights in shining armour. Or perhaps, two knights in slimy dirt." His condescending smile grew, akin to a hungry animal's, as his bright green eyes narrowed. The teenager, dressed in Slytherin robes, seemed both familiar and strange at the same time. Harry had _never_ seen this chap, not in the common room, not at their table, not anywhere. Yet he had a feeling like he knew him, as if he were a distant memory of an older brother or a mentor. For some reason, he had a really, really bad feeling about this, a cautionary sense that rose from deep in his gut.

Meanwhile, it seemed Neville fully recognized him. He let out a short exhale of relief, his own round face slowly regaining its color. He glanced up at the approaching mysterious lad pleadingly, gripping the petrified, statue-like hand of Ginny Weasley until his own knuckles were as white as snow. "Tom, please, Ginny's in trouble, you said it yourself. Please, we need help."

"And that's why I'm here, my dear Neville. Everything will be just fine within a few moments' time…" The boy, Tom, spoke, his smooth tone piercing through the cold, wet air like an arrow through a gentle deer. He glanced between the three younger students, his calculating gaze glinting even brighter when it finally landed on Harry's form. The pointed staring as it traveled over his twisting burns made him both uncomfortable and annoyed at the same time. "Oh, my, such… _vivid_ scars you have, little one."

Harry scowled, his open eye narrowing in irritation. "Thanks. So, are you just gonna stand around like a pompous twit, or..?"

Despite his snarky tone, the older student didn't seem fazed. Instead, he merely raised his eyebrows as he hummed, "Aren't you feisty, hmm, Harry?"

"How do you know my name?"

"I know many things, you could say it's my specialty." He shrugged, ignoring the exchanging of glances between the two boys.

A frown tugged down on his lips as Harry reshifted his balance, his knees tense. "Who are you?"

Neville, who was slowly returning to his panicked state over clutching his friend's quickly dying state, interjected, "Harry, that's-"

His words were cut off by the tall student's cold, domineering voice, "My name is Tom Riddle. I have longed to meet you for so many years, Harry Potter."

It was strange, how he was acting all high and mighty as if he were some sort of god, yet Harry had never heard of such a strangely common name for such a pompous boy. "Is that name supposed to ring a bell?"

"Not particularly. I prefer to go by my new name, one that isn't tainted by my filthy Muggle father." His words were aggressive, yet Riddle's tone remained callous as he merely shrugged.

Harry stared at him, unsure how to articulate an intelligent statement, so he just followed his natural instincts, "Uh, okay."

His lame answer went unacknowledged. Riddle stepped forwards, yet his sudden motion was met with one of caution as Harry contrasted him, stepping backwards instead. "You are incredibly peculiar, Harry. Perhaps I'll keep you around, you're not a Mudblood, after all. My forefather, Salazar Slytherin, has purposefully made sure that his legacy would not target any truthful magical lives."

No wonder. Beside him, Neville's eyes widened in shock, but Harry didn't waver. If this is how this bloke wanted to play at it, then so be it. "Right, so I'm gonna have to put a stop to this family reunion in that case, I think."

Riddle gave him a strange look, his slim dark eyebrows knitting in mild puzzlement. "What? You…"

"Huh? You seem shocked, Riddle, I thought you just said that knowing things was your specialty? I am also descended from our favorite sleazy old pureblood, so that makes us… what, exactly?" Harry waved his hand as he spoke, straining his face to look as stoic as possible. This was dangerous territory, if he made one wrong choice...

Neville glanced upwards at him, finally aware of the stakes at hand. "Harry, you're not-"

"Aye, I am. Let's keep it a secret between us; please, Neville." He whispered the last words and thankfully, his companion nodded in understanding, though his concerned, baffled frown didn't waver.

It seemed that Riddle was stuck in his own dilemma as he merely forced a tight smile. "Impossible, my mother's family was the last of his line, and besides, the Potters have never had a dark arts practitioner or a Slytherin in their brood. It's a clever bluff, I will admit-"

"Who said anything about bluffing? Listen, I don't just go around spewing lies or stories to make myself seem more important, okay? It's not like I asked for this."

Bingo. His words seemed to hit the right target in his relative's cool disposition as his pale face morphed into one of disgust, his façade shattered. "Y-you're lying, Harry Potter, how could you carry his blood in your veins!? Your mother was a little Mudblood-"

"Muggleborn. And you're right, she was born from Muggles. It's a good thing magic can skip generations, eh, Riddle?" A lopsided grin snaked its way up on his cheeks, a rush of adrenaline washing over his body as he watched Riddle's face darken in indignation.

"Salazar Slytherin would not stand for this, to have his bloodline _tarnished_ like this!"

"Maybe he shouldn't have went out and fathered who knows how many bastards if he was so concerned for his legacy."

Harry was surprised that the older student hadn't throttled him yet. Instead, Riddle took a deep breath, assumedly to calm his nerves, as the color slowly drained his face. "Well, this certainly changes things. Do you possess his gift, if your claims are true?"

"Parseltongue? Yeah."

Shifting his piercing emerald gaze onto his Gryffindor companion, Riddle tilted his head to the side shrewdly. "And you, too, possess that gift, don't you, Neville?"

"Um… Y-yes, but my family isn't descended from-"

"Yes, yes, I know." He waved his unblemished hand, turning back to glance down at Harry. "It makes no difference. It seems that we are all connected, then, no? Isn't it interesting how similar we are, Harry?"

"Not really. We're nothing alike, Riddle."

"Oh, but we are." A malicious, pearly smile flowered on the teenager's statuesque face. "Both Slytherins, both descendents of one of the most powerful wizards in Britain, both orphans… You reside in an orphanage, correct?" Riddle inquired, though he continued before the scarred boy could answer. "Is it by any chance called Cloverfield?"

Harry took a cautionary step back, his eyebrow furrowing. "You…"

"Hmm? Oh, see, we even look similar. Dark hair, thin, green eyes… You're just like a younger, inferior, _burnt_ version of me." His voice, laced with faux sweetness that made Harry's blood boil.

"Shut up-"

"Has no one ever taught you to respect your superiors, Harry Potter?" Riddle interjected, his lip curling in a conceited manner. "I suppose not, with your parents being dead and all. Oh, well, that's my fault, though, isn't it? I don't blame you in that case, then."

The two boys stared at him in horror, both minds racing at a cheetah's pace as his words echoed through the chamber.

Neville was the first to break through his trance, his determined brown gaze narrowing in understanding."I knew you were no good, Tom, but I didn't think it would come down to this."

Harry swallowed dryly, turning his head to look at the slowly standing boy with hesitation and puzzlement. "Neville?"

"He's not alive, Harry! Have you ever _seen_ this student before? He's not from our time, he's a memory, personified in that book!" He pointed directly at Riddle with his forefinger, anger replacing any remnants of his agitation.

Riddle turned to study the short, stout lad with a sagacious gaze, his eyebrows raised slightly. "It seems the rumours aren't true, hm? All that talk of Neville Longbottom being a cowardly, dense boy. How did you defeat me, Neville?" He stepped closer, clasping his hands together as he stared him down. "How? What was it your mother did that finally brought my precious empire down?"

His words were quick, like rapid bullets. His velvet-like voice was barely above a whisper and as Harry watched him, it seemed that cracks of insanity and arrogance were finally beginning to seep through the image of beauty that the slimy worm had worn.

"Tom Riddle isn't your name, is it…" Harry murmured, clenching his fists tightly. This was him, the man that had ruined his life and the lives of countless others. He knew not his name, but his actions and epithets. The Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named…

It seemed that Tom Riddle sensed his boiling, guttural hatred as he whirled his head at him, his soft onyx locks tousling with the harsh motion. "Glad you finally pieced it together, Harry! Tom Marvolo Riddle died many years ago, only to be reborn anew."

Drawing his elegant wand, the trueborn Heir of Slytherin sneered, flicking his wrist with grace. Intricate, lime-green lettering slowly appeared in the air before rapidly shuffling around, morphing into a strangely coherent phrase.

' _I am Lord Voldemort'_

"V-Voldemort..?" Harry stuttered, grimacing at the cacophonous sound and the rotten taste that the name left in his mouth. It seemed that Riddle didn't share his disgust, as he merely sighed in satisfaction.

"Ah, how sweet it sounds when uttered aloud, no?"

Neville, who had been silent for the last few minutes, finally stepped forward. He crossed his arms over his chest and even Harry had to admit he was impressed with his sudden courageous disposition that he had donned. "Aren't you dead, though? You perished six years ago, everyone knows that. Doesn't that mean you can't affect anything now?"

"I can't go around spilling all of my secrets to twelve-year-old brats now, can I?" Riddle clasped his dark oak wand with two hands, his fingers stroking the smooth wooden texture. "I'll answer your question with one of my own: how many times have you two desired power? Glory? To live forever on a throne of gold or ashes?"

Harry glanced over at Neville with a skeptical look, rolling his viridescent eye at the younger Dark Lord's words of bravado. Thankfully, it seemed that he wasn't the only one who wasn't tempted.

"Wh-what?" The Gryffindor boy frowned, his eyebrows furrowing in perplexity.

Tom Riddle merely cocked his head to the side, pursing his lips. "You look shocked, how come? We all have such dreams, no?"

With a scoff, Harry tucked his hands into his pockets, attempting to give the dapper teenager his dirtiest, most venomous glare. "I don't. We're not like _you_ , Riddle. No normal person thinks of such stupid, psychopathic ideas."

"Are you sure? And what if I offered you this opportunity right now? Join me, Harry Potter, and you can have _anything_ you desire. Together, as brothers in arms, we will see through reality and our visions will shape our world." He waved his hands in a majestic manner, taking a single step forwards as he did.

Harry stopped, his mind suddenly blank. He knew his words were true and full of ambition, and it was definitely possible… He could do anything he wanted. Yet, as Riddle extended his hand forwards, a charming smile planted on his lips, reality had come back to haunt the scarred boy. He took a deep breath through his nostrils. Ideal dreams and nostalgic memories of his family, his mother, his unburnt reflection and innocent happiness all flooded his mind, but in the end, they were just that: dreams and memories.

' _What I desire cannot be granted.'_ He thought, as the bitter, mundane world finally came into view.

"Harry-" Neville began softly, but the scarred Slytherin student cut him off, his full attention settled on the other identical pair of evergreen eyes.

"Thanks, but no thanks. I don't make deals with the devil, especially one that has destroyed my life and the lives of so many others." He spat out the last syllable, his gruesome face darkening in disdain as the young boy stared at the tall teen.

From the corner of his left eye, he noticed Neville glancing up at him, wide-eyed and gaping. The tension seemed to increase ten-fold as Riddle clicked his tongue, yet he shrugged as his disapproval was quickly replaced by a coldly cruel smile. The sight sent a shiver down his spine as Harry quickly began to regret his rash choice of words. Either way, they wouldn't be able to win either way without the situation escalating to a fight.

"A pity. Well, no matter, then. You won't stand in my way for long." The young man sighed as he swiftly raised his hand in the air. Much to his horror, two wands were clutched tightly in his firm grip.

Quickly shoving his unfeeling hand in his own robes' pocket, Harry's nerves for soothed, albeit for a split second, by the presence of the slim, dark cherry wood that felt cool to touch.

Unfortunately, it seemed that Neville didn't get as lucky as he did. His umber eyes widened in grim realization as he patted his own pockets, oval face paling considerably.

"When did he..?"

The two boys exchanged a quick glance, before returning their alert attention to the older Slytherin student, whose pale face was pulled into a smug, condescending smile. A new wave of anger and determination washed over Harry. Something about how this prat, with his mocking aura and how he knew that this once incredibly young, incredibly pompous teenager would grow up to be a murderous psychopathic wizard really, really ticked him off. It was a rage beyond he ever felt before, it was almost… primal.

Harry withdrew his wand, iron grip unwavering as he shifted his weight down to his feet, firmly standing in a defensive stance, ready to retaliate at any point. Neville, too, gave one last worried glance towards the almost stone-like state of Ginny, but he seemed to swallow his fears as he stood up, taking a careful step back towards Harry. It was two against one, but they were only twelve years old, their only combat experience was in the form of the one Duelling Club meeting and they both knew how that went. Besides, who knew what else this pillock had up his sleeve?

As if he read his mind, Tom Riddle raised his arm into the air in a grand manner, his expression quickly turning into one that of concentration. Harry rashly stepped forward, slashing his wand through the air as he made an attempt to disarm the ominously glowing wand that radiated a deep, dark energy. Much to his horror and frustration, Riddle merely blocked the incoming pearly spell with one of his own, a wordless blocking incantation. His maniacal smile grew wider, disturbingly excited.

And now, he showed his true colors. "Awaken, my master!" The ebony-haired teenager hissed out, turning his attention to the grandiose, sinister stone statue of their forefather. Neville dashed forwards in an attempt to interject him, but Riddle merely twisted his body out of harm's way, a smirk growing on his gaunt features as the aforementioned Gryffindor fell face first onto the cold marble ground. His incantation continued, "O, the greatest of the Hogwarts four! Grant me your gifts, Slytherin!"

A thunderous boom vibrated through the dimly illuminated battlegrounds, shaking the ground right beneath their feet. The stone face of Slytherin slowly opened his mouth whilst his lifeless eyes glowed a venomous chartreuse-green. The lower jaw finally hit the ground and within seconds, something had crawled out. It was a colossal creature with no limbs, instead maneuvering through the tunnel using its long, serpentine body. Clearly over twenty feet long, it resembled a prehistoric animal or some sort of mythical being, one that parents would tell investing stories about to their children. Its coat was slimy and covered in large scales of various shades of greens and browns, all creating ornate patterns. Slithering with a surprisingly great pace, considering its titanic size, Harry balked as the beast swiftly approached them.

At some point while he was gawking at the serpent's entrance, Neville had rushed over to him, face as pale as a phantom's. "This is bad. This is really, really bad." He whispered harshly, nervously brushing his mousy hair back.

"Is _that_ the basilisk?" Harry hissed, his shaking hand pointing to the monstrous being. Neville nodded stiffly, visibly swallowing. And at that moment, they felt the same degree of fear and remembered that at the end, they were just children.

"Harry, we're in deep trouble."

"I've noticed. So, got any bright ideas?"

"Nope, but we'll figure something out."

Grabbing his arm, the two boys ducked and jumped back away from the girl's body, dashing further away from their impending doom.

As they ran, Harry glared at his compatriot, letting out a loud sigh, "Why are _we_ the ones who have to deal with this? Where's the rest of the lot?"

"Dumbledore's out, business in London." Neville panted, whirling his head back to worriedly glance at Ginny, who strangely enough wasn't noticed by the basilisk.

"Ooooof course, why am I not surprised?"

Finally, they reached a murky corner of the untraditional sewers, desperately gulping for breaths.

"Gah! He said that help will be offered to those who need it, but I don't see anything!" Neville groaned, slipping off his dark over-cloak that hindered their speed fairly heavily, now that Harry realized. Doing the same, he racked his brain to think of something, _anything,_ that they could do. What can one do against a twenty-foot long snake that could turn people into stone?

It was then that the answer hit him. Of course, it was all so simple… If his idea failed, then, well, at least Harry could say he died in dignity. Leaning in, he lowered his voice to barely above a whisper. "Wait, do you think the basilisk would hear us out? It's a snake, we should be able to speak with it."

Neville sucked in a sharp breath, his face visibly souring. The Slytherin boy couldn't say he blamed him, really, the idea was beyond mad. It wasn't as if they had any other plans, however. "I dunno, it's super risky. Tom has it on a leash." He glanced back as he, too, whispered, watching the pompous teen lazily lean back against a wall, his smug aura slapping them even across the chamber.

The notion caused a new wave of rage to wash over him like an unmerciful hail as Harry pulled up his sleeves, revealing more skin in front of others than he had in years. "Well, it's a good thing risky is my middle name. Oi, basilisk!" He let out a whistle, turning to march forwards to greet the approaching beast.

Behind him, Neville cried out, "Harry, no!" Yet nothing could hold him back now. Sometimes, you just had to take a risk, and whether it would end in victory or death, it was the first step that counted. It was rash, sure, but anything was possible. He just had to will himself to do it.

Much to all of the male students' surprise, the basilisk stopped, leering down at him from his towering height. Harry immediately averted his gaze, instead taking interest in the floor. Even more shocking, however, was that the beast actually _responded_ , his booming, noble voice flooding his mind like melted fondue.

" _You dare call me with a such a low term!? Who do you think you are, mortal?"_ The basilisk had the voice of a king and suddenly, vague memories of his boring readings of Muggle books and history texts flashed vividly. How would one even speak to a king, much less the mythical king of the serpents?

Harry frowned, considering his words carefully before speaking. "Sorry, I wasn't sure what to refer to you as. Is 'your grace' better?"

Unfortunately for him, it seemed that Tom Riddle caught on to his strategy as he shook off his aloof disposition, pointing directly at Harry as he hissed out, "Don't listen to him, just kill him and the other boy! _They_ are your enemies!"

However, the basilisk made a low humming noise, ignoring the young Dark Lord's commands. " _Mayhaps, are you not afraid of me, mortal? Do you know who I am?"_

Shrugging, Harry restrained himself to keep his eye staring down at all times. If he looked up, hell, even if he glanced to the side, he was as good as dead. "Yeah, the basilisk, great king of all serpents. I'm sorry we got off on a bad foot, can we start again, your grace?" He attempted a half-smile, making sure not to reveal his teeth. He might've been wrong, but animals bared their teeth as a sign of aggression, so perhaps it would be wise not to grin too widely.

Behind him, Neville let out a sound, a mixture of a sigh and whimper. "Oh, Merlin help us…"

Strangely enough, the basilisk ignored him as he seemed to be stuck in his own train of thought. " _You are a strange little boy. Do you, too, carry_ his _blood in your veins?"_

Harry didn't need to ask the serpent who 'he' was. "Well, I _can_ communicate with you, your grace. My name is Harry Potter, may I ask what this boy over here promised you, exactly?" He jabbed his chin towards Riddle's direction, biting his lip to prevent a smirk from growing on his features when he heard a snarl of indignation from said teenager. "I can raise a bid for whatever he has offered you."

Sighing, the basilisk clicked its jaw in mifflement. " _I, unfortunately, do not seem to hold my former state of power. I have been destroyed once before, many centuries ago. May I see your eye, mortal? To determine whether your claims of heritage are true?"_ He inquired curiously, his voice curiously softer.

Yet Harry knew what type of game he playing at, as instead he merely smiled apologetically. They didn't call snakes deceivers for nothing, it seems. "I am truly sorry, your grace, but I am not worthy. How can a mere mortal glance upon the powerful form of the king of kings, in fear of defiling him?"

It was the right choice. The basilisk's voice in his mind hummed in approval, " _You are wise beyond your years. What do you plan to offer me?"_

"I dunno, what would you like?"

" _The so-called Heir of Slytherin here has offered me the school and its filthy, impure students as sacrifice."_

"Your grace, if I may make a suggestion…"

A thunderous dashing of footsteps grew louder as it approached him, yet it abruptly stopped as Harry sensed a warning movement from the basilisk. Instead, Riddle shouted, "No! What do you think you are doing, you little br-"

The basilisk, bless him, really, over-powered the pompous teenager, his deep, wizened voice haughty. " _Speak your mind, mortal, I shall grant you this one wish."_

"Forgive my language, but that is a completely bollocks idea. I get that you want and deserve your former glory, but Tom Riddle is only using you for his own selfish gains." Harry bowed, hoping to catch a glimpse of any of the human boys' expressions. When he couldn't see anything from the angle he was situated in, he continued.

"The purebloods and you have been driven to near extinction in the past because of hunts, who's to say it won't happen again? I know what it's like to be completely shunned, hidden away in fear, but if you do not return to your slumber, you will be eliminated for good. Your grace, please, reconsider your decision and your strength will be safely returned to you once more soon enough!" The scarred boy shouted, wondering where his sudden genuine desire to help the basilisk came from.

The king of the serpents was also shocked, as when he spoke, his voice was softer than usual, yet still cautionary. " _Why do you wish to help me, Harry Potter? Why are you telling me all this, with your back straight and your scarred face held high? Why should I trust you and how do I know that you do not share the same motives as him?"_

Pursing his lips, Harry just spoke the first words that came to mind. "The basilisk is one of a kind, it would be a shame to lose it because of a lowly scheme. I don't think it's honorable to use others' lives as a stepping stone."

" _Do you swear that your words are true and genuine? That no harm should come my way if I return to rest, with no more destruction committed?"_ The beast ushered, his words creeping down his spine like his presence had minutes before.

Letting out a soft exhale, Harry clasped his hands together, his fingers nervously stroking the leathery flesh. Honestly, if he made it out alive… "I swear on my life that my words and intentions are true, and that no preventable harm should come your way, your grace."

They stood in silence for a long time as the basilisk thought to himself, seemingly weighing his choices before letting out a low hiss, " _Very well, in that case-"_

Riddle rudely cut him off and Harry was, quite frankly, shocked that it took him this long to go on without speaking. "He's lying! I would never, he's just trying to scheme his way out of this! To outsmart you! I, as the Heir of Slytherin, promised you nothing more, nothing less, you can have the feast of the century! You-"

The beast snarled and Harry had to press his lips tightly together to prevent any chuckles from coming out. " _You dare interrupt me in such a low manner, pureblood? If you must reconfirm aloud that you are the Heir, then you are no true heir. Harry Potter, is that book he clutches so dearly his lifeline?"_

"Sure is, your grace."

With a great inhale, the basilisk turned over to face the manifestation of the memory. Harry finally glanced up, noting the dim aching in his neck from anchoring it for such a long period of time. Success! He didn't know how, or why, but they were alive, and Riddle was ready to meet his doom within seconds. Somehow, he trusted the basilisk. It didn't seem that he would, or should, turn on them any time soon. Perhaps he was just misunderstood, or maybe he truly lived up to his name of king.

" _Alas! I shall heed your wisdom, young heir. Bring him and his book over here."_

Riddle's face flushed into a deep, cherry-red as he snapped, "No! You insolent brats, you've ruined everything-" His words were cut off by a sickening crunch of flesh against flesh, a shattering of bone crackling through the dry air like a whip. A spurt of dark blood, the color of thin jet ink, gushed from the tall, distracted teen as he fell backwards, the wine-colored leather tome flying from his hands in the process. Neville recoiled, his face stiff and tightened in pain as he reached up to glance at his soft, balled fist, his pink skin dowsed in a mixture of red and black.

Harry raised his eyebrow at the sight, unaware of his gaping mouth. The unexpectedly strong uppercut easily broke the ghostly figure's nose, though the burnt boy was more shocked that his physical form was able to take damage. As Neville scrambled over to the floor where the diary landed, seemingly getting over his own surprise, a similar sharp crack resonated through the enormous chamber.

Whirling his head to identify the source, Harry's eye widened at the sight of the comatose body of Ginny jerking harshly, as if she were hit. As his own blood ran cold in sudden realization, he shifted his gaze away from the sight. Neville, wiping his bloody hand on his velvet pants, waved the other hand which he clutched the book with.

"Here, Harry!" With a fairly strong throw, the onyx-haired boy reached out with both hands to catch the slimy, dark tome.

Harry nodded his appreciation, though he yelled out anyway, "Neville, be careful, if you hurt him, Ginny feels the damage, too!"

Neville froze, his eyes wide in fear as he glanced over at the sprawled body of the girl, whose skin seemed to pale further. "What?"

A harsh grip clasped the Gryffindor's shoulder as Riddle pressed the end of his wand against Neville's soft neck, a murderous glint in his crazed viridian eyes as he hissed out, "You two think you're so clever, don't you? If you don't want your little friend here to die, then give the diary back, Potter."

Despite the grave situation he was stuck in, Neville managed to yelp out, "Harry, don't do it!"

"Quiet, you-"

Suddenly, with the best possible timing, a loud cry of a bird reverberated through the sewer area! A large winged beast, its feathers as red as the most vibrant of fires and tropical flowers, flew in. Beak first, it shifted its attention to Tom Riddle, dashing right towards him. A familiar, worn-out hat was clutched tightly in its long, ravenous talons, who was letting out a strangled, deep cry from the velocity it was possible experiencing.

"What the-"

"Fawkes, don't hurt him too much, or you'll hurt Ginny, too!"

The mystical bird named Fawkes seemed to take note of the boy's high-pitched pleas as it dropped the Sorting Hat with a soft thud, ignoring its yell of indignation. The iridescent creature, Harry realized it must've been a phoenix, as unrealistic as it sounded, dove for the teen.

"Oi, Longbottom, boy! Tuck your hand in, I've got something for ya!" The elderly voice of the Sorting Hat called out, its wrinkled personified face vaguely annoyed. The Boy Who Lived scrambled towards it, nearly falling forwards, as he roughly picked up the hat. As he stuffed his hand inside the indent of the article of fabric, his eyes widened in shock.

Retreating his hand, a long, silver sword encrusted with shining crimson rubies on its leather hilt was revealed. Its blade shone brightly in the near darkness of the chamber, radiating a powerful, magical aura that sent a shiver down Harry's spine.

"This is…"

"The Sword of Gryffindor, the one and only! To hold and carry it is a sign of a true warrior, a brave student that shall carry his legacy! I never doubted you, Neville Longbottom."

" _Potter! Have you forgotten where you are?"_

The basilisk's thunderous voice brought him out of his blank trance as Harry managed a sheepish, half-smile, shifting his gaze downwards. "Sorry, sorry, your grace. Should I just lay the book out in front of you?"

The basilisk made a gesture, baring long, monstrous fangs as he let out a short noise, perhaps a laugh. Suddenly, with great speed and force, the serpent king's head dove towards the much smaller magical object that Harry had gingerly tossed in front of him. With a single swoop, he grabbed ahold of the book, clenching it in between top and bottom fangs. Even if the beast bit down gently, his natural strength was still beyond comprehension or restraint. The dark leather cover was pierced in its centre, drops of black venom seeping and raining down to the floor below. Loosening his jaw, the basilisk tossed the diary down as he jabbed his scaly head upwards, his quite literally petrifying stare gazing upwards to the dome-like ceiling.

A warm feeling enveloped Harry's gut as he managed to get a full, safe view of the beast. Did the king of the serpents look away for his sake? Maybe, maybe not. Right now, he had a bigger issue to deal with.

Behind him, a loud, blood-curdling scream caused him to flinch as it pierced through the air. It was a high-pitched, agonizing noise that wasn't just any normal yell, it was a sound of torture. Eye widened, Harry whirled his head back to see the mangled body of Tom Riddle on the darkly bloodied floor, his face withered in pain and extreme rage. Long, thin cracks pierced his skin as if it were a marble statue, revealing oozing, viscous black fluids that trickled down the porcelain flesh.

"Count your blessings," he rasped and despite the unimaginable suffering he must've been experiencing, the young form of the infamous Dark Lord smiled, an unhinged gesture that made Harry's warm blood run ice cold. "I'll rise back stronger. And when I do, _you_ will be the first to die at my hands." His eyes, the color of toxins and pestilence, were wide in a savage craze, darting between all sights that surrounded him in his misery: Neville, the undisturbed body of a petrified Ginny, the Sorting Hat, the proudful and traitorous basilisk and finally, the scarred boy, his contender for Heir.

Harry stared at the grotesque sight, too frozen to even utter a cocky remark. He was lying, he must've been. Riddle was just trying to get a rise out of him, right? As much as he hated to admit it, Harry wouldn't be surprised if this monstrous memory would come back to haunt him in his dreams. And yet, in spite of his fear, he couldn't tear his gaze off the decaying body.

As Tom Riddle dropped face first, his injured hand searched for something behind him as a short bark of wheezing laughter escaped his throat. An inhuman sound, the guttural noise resembled that of a dog or a beast. It was almost as if he never laughed before and then as if the situation couldn't get worse, his wide eyes seemed to bulge in a grim excitement as he found what he was looking for.

"Longbottom! Grab the sword and go strike the diary one last time!" The Sorting Hat boomed, rigid in its unmoving state on the dark, smooth floor. Neville seemed to understand the extreme implications of the command as he dashed over to Harry and the basilisk, the pale blade in his hands somehow glimmered in the darkness of the wet sewer-like hell.

As the bloodied teenager shakily raised his hand, his bony fingers curled around a slim wand, he uttered one last spell, "Avada-"

Unfortunately for him, Harry was faster. It was just at that moment, in his race against time, that he remembered his own plain wand was still present in his grimy pockets. Panicked, he retracted it, tightly gripping the wooden weapon with his calloused hand before slashing it through the air.

"Expelliarmus!"

The notable bright flash erupted from his dark cherry wand, diving straight towards the injured wizard. His own incantation was interrupted as the ominous green glow faded from his own weapon as it was forcibly ejected from his hand. Riddle recoiled and though he was unable to stand, his face morphed into one of hatred as he snarled. A sigh of relief escaped Harry's lips as he turned to Neville, more because the sight of the ravaged half-carcass was disturbing him than anything else.

Swiftly raising the sword into the air, the Boy Who Lived brought down the blade with a swift force. The edge, despite its age, must've been well tended as it sliced through the leather and parchment material as if it were butter. The clean sweep, separating the cover clean in half, caused another screech to fill his ears. Harry flinched at the horrific sound and as a nasty, sloshing sound of skin and organs being sliced through quickly followed, he forced himself to look at the gruesome carcass.

Resisting the urge to vomit was easier said than done, but somehow he managed to succeed. Gulping, his youthful face contorted to that of fear and disgust as he watched the pool of black grow larger beneath Tom Riddle, staining his previously immaculate uniform. Suddenly, as the light left the teenager's cool green eyes, a bright golden light was emitted through the darkened cracks in his skin. Harry brought his hand up to shield his eye, squinting as he did, until the blinding light was no more.

The corpse and any fluids that surrounded him suddenly evaporated into pale dust, which further faded until any remnants of Tom Riddle were no more.

" _What a disgusting creature,"_ the basilisk mused, its grand voice was welcoming to Harry's ears rather than intimidating.

With the memory's perishment, the heavy tension seemed to lift. The two boys simultaneously sighed in relief, glancing between each other with exhausted smiles. It was over. None should plague them no more, at least until next year. Who knew what troubles the future would bring them?

Neville's grimy, sweat-streaked face softened as his amber eyes gleamed in the near darkness. "Harry…" He croaked, before he reached up to cover his cough, though a soft smile was present on his face.

Reality hit him as with a wide gaze, Harry smiled awkwardly, reaching up to rub the back of his neck sheepishly, "Oh! I-I know, um, that looked really like, evil, I guess, but…" He trailed off as he watched the Gryffindor's confused glance, his heartbeat drumming loudly in his ears.

He expected disgust or weariness, but he was surprised to see a wide, excited grin on the boy's round face. "Are-are you kidding? That was bloody amazing!" Neville beamed with the power of a thousand suns, "Oh, Merlin's beard, I got goosebumps. Harry, you convinced the _basilisk_ to peace and to turn on Tom Riddle!"

"Yeah, I guess I did do that…" He muttered as he was hit with worry and dread for the future. How would he explain… _this_ , to anyone?

"Don't look so down, that was, like, natural charisma! You'd make a great commander, honestly."

"Really?" The scarred boy asked hesitantly, but he was met with a sure, reassuring nod from Neville.

"Really! Harry, you're brilliant!"

A soft sigh escaped his lips as Harry nodded at his companion with appreciation, "Thanks, Neville. I'm glad…"

The pureblood nodded, but his smile slowly wavered. "No problem, but right now, we've gotta go. Look, some color is returning to Ginny's face, but Madam Pomfrey will be able to help her more than we can. Um…"

"We can pick her up together. Get the diary before we leave, though."

Nodding, Neville ran over to where the tattered remains of what was left of the diary was. Whilst he was doing so, Harry sighed, finally aware that the basilisk was still curiously glancing down at them.

"Thank you for helping us." He spoke softly, averting his emerald gaze down once more. A quiet hissing filled his ears, but he continued. "What are you going to do now?"

" _Slumber once more. It seems I have no use anymore and finally, I may return back to my rest. Do visit sometime, Harry Potter. You will always be welcome here."_ The basilisk's voice grew dimmer as he slowly retreated back to his domain. Blinking, the Slytherin student merely grinned, a warm, fuzzy feeling dancing deep in his stomach.

"I will come back. Have a good rest, your grace…" Harry murmured, his distracted thoughts wandering to the near future.

* * *

Hours later, the unlikely duo found themselves situated in the infirmary, wincing and fidgeting as the middle-aged nurse doted over them, prancing around the room as she spoke vigorously. "I can't believe you boys. The Chamber of Secrets! Oh, look at you two, you better pray the dirt didn't get in your wounds."

Neville attempted a reassuring smile as he shrunk in his seat, his fingers hovering over his pristine bandages and gauzes. "We're fine, ma'am. How's Ginny? Can we see her?"

"Miss Weasley will be fine, she took on great mental and magical strain, but it's nothing permanent. What she needs now is _rest_. Besides, you have your own well-beings to worry about."

"But-"

"No buts, Mr. Longbottom! Now, drink." Pomfrey handed them two goblets filled with a murky, vaguely green liquid that resembled more of a solution of inedible herbs than any medical potion.

Harry eyed his goblet warily while his friend, if he could even call him that, merely groaned. "Gah! I hate these so much…"

"What are they?"

"Cure-it-alls. They're mixed from different herbs and roots, all of them taste horrendous."

"Yeah, these… these look pretty foul." Harry frowned, instead grasping the silver chalice over his lap, preferring not to taste the viridian product.

A voice called out without a prompt and thankfully, it wasn't Pomfrey yelling at them. Instead, it came from the entrance and the two boys glanced over to identify the source of the sound. Much to their shock, Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson stood by the white, wooden door, identical scowls planted on their pale faces.

"Potter! What on earth is this?"

Harry raised an unkempt eyebrow at the sight, unsure what to make of his situation. "Draco? Pansy? What-"

Before he could finish, though, Pomfrey whirled on the two Slytherins with a protective, stern glare, her arms grasping several bottles of potions and archaic medical equipment. "Mr. Malfoy and Miss Parkinson, out! I have an infirmary full of petrified and injured kids and only one pair of hands around! You two have to come back later, visiting hours are over."

Pansy gave her a glare of equal intensity, crossing her arms over her chest as she began, "But we just wanted to check on-"

"No buts! Out!"

With some protests, the two purebloods were ushered out, but not before they made several hand signals to Harry, who merely nodded and attempted to mouth, " _I'll tell you guys about it later."_

The mediwitch sighed loudly and for a second, Harry felt bad for her, but her domineering, overly-motherly nature _was_ quite suffocating. "Good riddance, oh, look at the time! Where's Miss Granger?" She glanced around, before swiftly prancing over to the other side of the long nursing area.

Once she was gone, Harry let out an overdramatic sigh of his own, much to Neville's amusement. "They're gonna pounce on me with questions the second I step into the dorms, aren't they?"

"Probably. It's nice of them to stop by, though. I'm surprised, they always seem a little heartless, don't they?"

"I suppose, yeah." Harry shrugged, lazily tilting the still full drink around with his wrist. It seemed that Neville realized the implications of his words as he grew flustered, his pink face blossoming vividly.

"Wait, ah, sorry, I just realized-"

Harry let out a snort, patting the other boy on the shoulder with a mild reassurance. "Nah, don't worry about it. They're prats sometimes, but they're good mates deep down."

Neville seemed doubtful, but he tilted his head in thought, as if he was actually reconsidering his stance. It was unlikely, however it was nice to see that the humble Boy Who Lived was rational to his own opinions. "I see… Well, I'll take your word for it."

The door was opened once more, yet instead of pesky intruders and curious students, it was the great headmaster himself who strode in, a vague frown marring his already withered face.

"Professor Dumbledore!" Neville called out, and Harry had to restrain a scowl as he watched the elderly wizard turn around to meet their stares, before slowly making his way over to them.

"Oh, good day, Neville, Mr. Potter. How are you two feeling?" His face softened as he peered down at them through his half-moon shaped frames, smiling kindly.

Harry shrugged, quickly regretting the action as a low sore pain ached all throughout his body. "About as good as we can be, sir."

Neville nodded in agreement, meeting the headmaster's smile with one of his own. "What Harry said. We didn't get the worst of the damage, after all."

Dumbledore nodded slowly, studying the two with a milky gaze. "Yes, it seems so, fortunately. It was a truly bizarre situation, was it not? I would have never believed that the Chamber was indeed real. How did you two discover the entrance?"

"Ah, I found it." Neville murmured, glancing over at Harry to check if he wanted to provide input, yet the burnt boy remained silent. "No one's been able to find it because it's hidden in one of the washrooms. A secret entrance in the sinks, it can only be opened by a Parseltongue."

"Curious, nothing less brilliant expected from Lord Slytherin, after all. And you two discovered the basilisk in there, too?" He inquired, his hand stroking his long, snowy-white beard in deep thought.

"Aye, sir."

"What had come of the beast?"

"Eternal slumber. Tom Riddle got destroyed, along with the book. There's no chance he'll come back, right, Professor?"

"Correct, Neville. The basilisk's venom is incredibly corrosive, the diary's magical capabilities were damaged beyond repair. We can rest easy, now."

"Mhm. Oh, and I forgot to say this earlier, Professor, but thank you for your help. With the Sword of Gryffindor and Fawkes, I mean." Neville stumbled over his words, but both of them listened to him patiently. A gentle smile grew on Dumbledore's face as his pale blue eyes twinkled fondly.

"You are very welcome, as I said before, help is available to those who seek it at Hogwarts. I am just glad that you two are safe, regardless of what happened." He nodded at Harry, who met the notion with one of his own.

Taking a deep breath, Neville exchanged a glance with Harry, before the two glanced up at the old man expectantly. "Ah, Professor, may we ask another question?"

"Of course, what would you like to know?"

"Can you please tell us about Ginny? What happened to her? Is she going to be okay?" Dumbledore paused, his gaze slowly narrowing but before he could answer, Neville quickly added in, "Please, Professor Dumbledore, Madam Pomfrey won't even let us see her…"

Even Harry, who didn't particularly care nor was he that close to the youngest Weasley, stared at Dumbledore, hoping that if he supported Neville's question, then it might get answered. Fortunately, it seemed he was correct as Dumbledore glanced behind him, perhaps checking if the aforementioned nurse was in earshot.

"Ah, that's a prickly situation… Well, to start off, she will be just fine-" Neville sighed in relief, but the archmage continued, "-all she needs now is some rest. Now, as to what is affecting her… Have you two noticed anything strange between her connection to Tom Riddle?"

"She was possessed, wasn't she?" Harry asked, turning to look at his peer for confirmation.

Neville nodded, pursing his lips in thought. "Mhm, she always carried that diary around with her…"

"Correct. And you have also noticed that when the diary took damage, so did Tom Riddle's physical body, didn't you?"

"Yeah, and when Neville threw in a punch at his face, it seemed that she almost… I dunno, jumped, despite being in a coma." Harry waved his hand around as he spoke, unsure how to fully explain the disturbing sight that only they had experienced.

The ancient wizard paused, "Interesting… Well, all of these facts are quite important in piecing together the truth. Tom Riddle, or the past self of You-Know-Who, the memory you two saw, was bonded together with the diary. His soul itself was embodied in its pages, so if someone were to write in it…"

"Could he reply, then?"

"Correct, Mr. Potter. Miss Weasley wouldn't have known that the diary she was writing in was one that held the memory of the darkest wizard in the last century, obviously, but children are incredibly impressionable. Especially for someone as charismatic as young Tom, it wouldn't have been especially difficult for him to influence her."

"And he possessed her? How?"

"He targeted her magical capabilities. Magic isn't a simple physical trait, like hair color or height, it is a mixture of physical and psychological capacity and prowess. It is a sort of stamina which flows all throughout your body. This phenomenon also results in long lifespans in wizards and witches. Obviously, there are none that live forever, but the limit to old age doesn't have to end in the early hundreds like it does for Muggles." Dumbledore explained slowly, watching the two boys with a piercing, wise gaze.

Harry stopped, before glancing up to stare up at the headmaster. "So, why does this all matter?"

"Well, to put it in simplest terms, while the diary held his mind and thought, Tom Riddle couldn't simply establish a physical body using its magical properties. And so, he turned to a victim, one whose magic reserves could hold and manifest a form for him."

"Is that why when he was hurt, she was hurt, too? Because his body was created from her magic?"

"Correct, Mr. Potter."

"It didn't damage her physically, then?"

"No, fortunately. That, in its essence, is why Miss Weasley fell into a coma, due to overexertion. She was simply pushed too far in her limits."

Neville let out a deep exhale, his voice shaky, "How long will it take her to completely heal?"

Dumbledore glanced down at him sympathetically, his voice soft as he spoke. "Around three days, but she should feel its effects for a long, long time. A few months, perhaps."

Cedar eyes wide, even Harry could emphasize with the distressed boy. "A few… A few months?"

"Just mild weakness and exhaustion, Miss Weasley should be fine if she won't push herself." He mused, though even the usually composed headmaster of Hogwarts was frowning in concern. "Either way, we are all incredibly thankful for your deeds, gentlemen." He bowed his head respectfully, not noticing both of the boys' deep shock at the sudden gesture.

And with that, their conversation was over as the elderly man gave them one last smile, before backing away. "Oh, and you two will have your exams rescheduled to in two days' time rather than tomorrow. I would not expect you two write them when you are both physically and mentally exhausted." Dumbledore winked mirthfully, offering the two gawking boys one last wave as he strode away, assumedly to go speak with Pomfrey.

Harry sighed, now fully aware of how tired he truly was.

Good grief.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Whoo! Sorry for the long wait, I got a bit busy with classes and tests, haha. So, that's the end of second year, with plenty of action in this chapter! Also, thank you for all your guys' feedback and follows, I really do appreciate it.

To address Stacey's Universe: I'm sure there's a way, but I doubt I'll go through with the fix due to the fact that I think it would take away from his struggles, which can hinder some plans I have for future development. (': Thank you for the suggestion, though, I'm sorry if it's not quite the answer you're looking for, haha.

Finally, like always, thank you guys for reading and I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. (: I'm not sure when the next part will come out, but it should be within the next month, hopefully. I hope y'all have a great day!


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